


Slantverse, Volume 1

by Gala_and_Elle



Category: 30 Seconds to Mars, Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Gym Class Heroes, Mindless Self Indulgence, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is..., The Cab, The Used
Genre: Age Play, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - High School, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Belts, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bratting, Breathplay, Bruises, Bukkake, Caning, Childhood, Closet Sex, Confined/Caged, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, Fighting, Flogging, Frottage, Haircuts, Hand Jobs, Historical Reenactment, Humiliation, Kink Negotiation, Kink Shaming, Knives, Masturbation, Medical Kink, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Nipple Play, Oral Fixation, Outdoor Sex, Paddling, Pegging, Public Nudity, Punishment, Puppy Play, Roleplay, Sensation Play, Service, Sickfic, Spanking, Teaching, Threesome - F/M/M, Tickling, Whipping, cigarette burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 42,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gala_and_Elle/pseuds/Gala_and_Elle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first 21 Slantverse stories for easier downloading</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Between Twelve and Twenty a Minute

**Author's Note:**

> The day Brendon nearly dies is the day he realises he might need a dom.

The idea of his lungs slowly emptying has always been appealing to Brendon. He was young the first time he can remember it becoming an issue; playing cops and robbers at church. Derrick and Aaron caught him, putting their knees on his chest to pin him so they could arrest him. Brendon didn’t try to get away, just stayed flat and wheezed with a smile on his face. The adult minding them told the proper authority, and he was spoken to. It was only the first of many talks, though he never got in as much trouble as Amber did. It was always easier for him to pretend to like roughing around than it was for her to stop roughing around.

He does pause and think about whether he should go through with it. He’s alone in his room, shirt off, jeans hanging low on his hips with his belt in his hand. He should have time enough to do it, it’s just a matter of if he should. What he’s about to do is double a sin. All Mormons must be submissive to God, controlling their urges in the name of Him until they find their husband or wife. Brendon has no such person and so striving for release is breaking an order. It’s also clearly written in every pamphlet, spoken in every speech, that men must not take the role of women, women must not take the role of men. Yet all he’s ever thought about is a woman or man taking charge of him.

Brendon’s considered asking Amber. He’s not sure what her particular slant is, but there’s a good chance she would be willing to indulge his need, and he surely would follow her order. But the bottom line is there’s too much risk. They’re of the age that they can group date, but their parents, his brothers and sisters, her sisters, essentially every person in their lives would be suspicious if they tried to be alone together. The risk of them getting caught is too high. It’s safer to do it this way, slip his own belt around his throat instead of waiting for a dom’s hands.

Except it isn’t. He wakes up in the hospital, blanket heavy on his bare legs. He doesn’t remember coming or passing out. Nor does he get much of a chance to think about it. Soon after he wakes, Mason and Kara come into his room, both with a cookie and a cup of juice suggesting they’d expected to wait a while.

“Tell me you were testing out a method for your secret sub. Tell me that and we don’t have to tell Mom and Dad.” Kara sounds almost pleading, while Mason just stares at him.

Brendon says it. Lying is just another sin to add to the list of things he’s doing wrong, but it buys him time. He needs that. He’s sure he can’t change, he just needs to pretend for as long as possible.

Going back to school the next day isn’t as bad as he would have thought. Hoodie zipped to the top, all he has to do is not raise his hand for answering questions, and nobody notices. Everything is fine until gym class. It’s often the bane of a sub’s existence, doing sit-ups on a freshly hit ass can either hurt like hell or turn someone on, depending on subslant. Brendon has a different difficulty though; gym class has a dress code of shorts or sweatpants and a t-shirt. His normally comfortable ringer tee shows off his bruises almost like he’s displaying them on purpose.

The first ten minutes of gym are what they always are; a warm-up and sprints. What’s different is how everyone is staring at him. Brendon would have expected one or two, a handful at most. Not twenty seven.

Mr Norton calls them into the middle of the room, then starts throwing pinnies at random for teams. Nate bursts into a torrent of swears as his pinny gets snagged on one of the one and a half inch spikes protruding from his collar. With Gabe and Victoria both not in this class one of the subs helps him untangle himself, careful to not touch Gabe and Victoria’s property. Witnessing Nate’s problem, Brendon can’t help but hope in the case that a dom has a slant in which it matters to them and cares enough to collar him, they’ll pick one a little more practical. Adam Siska’s is almost as bad, a eight in one chain weave doesn’t really work with shoulder length curly hair.

The taped lines on the floor show three mini courts, Brendon’s team blue is on the left side of the gymnasium. Jon Walker is on his team today, and falls in step with him. Brendon hasn’t really talked to him much, only knows about his slant because it’s an unusual one. He’s not entirely non-active, but everyone knows he’s more into watching than being on either side of a paddle. Most people are pretty used to him commenting on their relationships, and he's almost always invited to public scenes.

“Found a dom Brendon? Good for you.”

Brendon answers verbally, though his voice is strained. “No, no dom. Did it myself.”

Jon doesn’t seem to think he’s an idiot. On the contrary, he smiles. “Even better. I have a friend who’s been watching you, but he thought you might be non-active.”

“What?” Brendon can’t imagine being non-active. Not only would it horrify his parents, possibly worse than the submissive admission eventually will, it seems like a very awkward way to live life.

“I know. You’re not, you just overcompensate because you think you’re supposed to be dominant, and you fail hard enough that you confuse pretty much everyone. If Pete goes off on one more detailed story about how just the right sub could make you reach your potential, Mikey’s going to punch him. Which, believe it or not, is still better than another speech from Gerard about how you don’t need to find a potential, how it’s okay to be non-active. At least Pete is creative, Gee’s just ranty.”

All of this is completely new to Brendon, and he has no idea what to say, even if every word didn’t hurt. There are a few teens from church at the school, he hopes they don’t see him the way Jon and his friends apparently do.

When it becomes obvious Brendon isn’t going to reply, Jon goes on. “You should talk to my friend though. It looks like you’re into edgeplay and he’s really good at boundaries. And he’s discreet, which I’m guessing by the overcompensating is something you’re looking for.”

“Yeah. Who?” Brendon doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but if he could be a sub at school and nothing at home his life would be perfect. He could try breathplay again, and with someone watching him he could avoid the same trouble.

“Spencer.”

“Spencer Smith,” he repeats, just to check. When Jon doesn’t correct the last name, Brendon goes on. “Are you serious? He’s with Ryan.” Of course it's possible for a dominant to have more than one submissive, and in rarer cases a submissive might be shared among more than one dom, but he never would have pegged Spencer and Ryan for that sort of relationship.

“No, he’s not. Everyone seems to think that, but he’s not. I mean, maybe when they were testing, but Ryan’s been Keltie’s bitch for a year now. Oh don’t look at me like that, he likes name calling. Humiliation is his slant, can’t come unless he’s blushing.”

“You shouldn’t-”

“What, be telling you this? I bet you ten bucks he gets hard when I tell him a stranger knows what a little whore he is.” Brendon winces. Humiliation is definitely not his slant. Every sub to their own, but it’ll never be his.

“So do you want me to introduce you to Spence? He’s not a dick, he won’t make you drop to your knees or kiss his hand or anything. My friends aren’t real huge into the formal scene.” Brendon doesn’t doubt that. The sort that are into that, like Leto, probably couldn’t handle a nearly non-active voyeur, or a proclaimer of non-active rights.

“Yeah?” The worst that could happen is Spencer's and his slants don’t match as well as Jon thinks they will. Well, no. The worst that can happen is Michael or Austin sees him cozying up to Spencer, and they inform his parents or siblings. But Brendon’s getting pretty sick of living in fear, and letting that fear hold him back from finding his dom in glinting chains.

“Walker! Urie! This is baseketball, not gossiping time. Get a move on!”

Brendon bursts into a run immediately, authoritative tone striking him at his core. Jon seems less affected, jogging to catch up with Brendon, not to appease Mr Norton. “Cool. Find me at lunch and you can meet him.”

Brendon nods his agreement, then runs towards the ball currently at the other end of the gym. For now this is what he’s supposed to be doing, and he doesn’t have to think about anything else.


	2. Conversation Is The Toll For The Bridge To A New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon follows up on Jon's suggestion to see if Spencer wants to be his dom. Unfortunately Spencer's friends are kind of obnoxious.

Brendon’s used to sitting alone at lunch. Sometimes it’s the cafeteria, the edge of a table if he can. No matter where he sits there’s a backpack on the side of his plate, a canvas and plastic barrier to keep him from spying on others. He understands it, especially when it’s at a more formal table. It’s less lonely on the edge of the table, only cut off from one group instead of two. Usually though, he goes to the library. Technically you’re not supposed to eat or drink inside, but as long as you sweep up crumbs and stay quiet, Mr. Steineckert doesn’t seem to notice. Heck, he doesn’t seem to notice people at all, at least until they seek him out for something specific.

Today’s the first day in years he’s going to the caf with the intent of sitting with people. Maybe. If this isn’t some joke, meant to get someone with an inflicting-humiliation slant off. He pauses at the line of propped open doors, then forges on. The room doesn’t look any different from the way it did a week ago, and he guesses it shouldn’t. Just because this could be the biggest thing in his life doesn’t mean it affects anyone or anything else.

Jon’s group takes up almost an entire table, the space on the edge only big enough for one or two people that won’t notice or don’t care that they’re crashing a obvious clique. Even last week that wouldn’t have been him; he tries his best to not intrude on people. If nothing else Jon’s right about one thing, they’re an informal group. Of the dozen plus gathered only one is using a kneeling pad, and all the rest are on chairs. Statistically it’s unlikely that all of them are doms, and as he gets closer he sees Nate and Sisky, both of whom he knows for a fact are owned subs. An asteroid would fall to the earth before Jared Leto let his sub sit beside him.

“Hi. I’m Brendon?” He doesn’t know why it comes out as a question, it’s not like he’s _not_.

“Trust me, we know.” That comes from a shaggy blond sitting next to Jon.

“Fuck off Conrad,” Spencer answers before Brendon has the chance to say anything.

A boy with shoulder length black hair grins at him almost manically for a second, before toning it down to less disturbing levels. “If you wanna know about the A.N.A.A I’ve got a mock up for the flier somewhere here.”

He smiles again, and pulls his backpack from his feet onto his lap. As much as Brendon can see of it, it’s covered in non-active slogans like _stay out of my bedroom_ and _my dungeon is a home office_ and _n-a is a-okay_. Brendon doesn’t think he’s non-active though, not the way the teen beside him has his fingers lightly hooked into the collar of his shirt. When he finally finds a folded piece of green printer paper Brendon takes it. A.N.A.A apparently stands for Active Non-Active Alliance.

“I’m not non-active,” he replies automatically.

The guy doesn’t take that well. He frowns and his arms start to gesture as he says “It’s nothing to be ashamed of!”

“Oh for Christ’s sake.” Brendon doesn’t know that speaker either, but he can tell he’s a sub. He’s wearing a low v-neck shirt -low enough that Brendon’s surprised the principal didn’t tag him for dress code violations- and it shows off a handful of healing scars.

The advocate guy turns his full glare on the scarred sub. “What, are you saying it is?”

“No, I’m saying I’d rather let Chiz buy me a teddy bear and fuck me on a bed covered in rose petals than listen to this again. I don’t see why you even care, you’re active.”

“Right, because minorities are so good at pleading their case that everyone just falls head over heels in their hurry to be good to them. Majorities have to change, Butcher, not the minority.”

“I agree and stuff-” and even if he didn’t Brendon wouldn’t say that to this guy- “but I’m really not an n-a.”

“That’s good,” Spencer says.

“That’s good,” Ryan mocks. The girl beside him smacks him on the back of the head.

“Jon just said-” In a matter of seconds his confidence fades away. “Uh. Never mind. Have a nice lunch.”

Jon smacks his Pepsi down and burps. “Jon said Spencer wants to jump your bones. Brendon seemed agreeable.”

Brendon just looks at Jon’s straw, slowly spinning around the circumference of the opening. He doesn’t want to see anyone getting mad at him for Jon’s possible mistake. Still, he needs to clarify it. “But not if you’re with him, Ryan. I know the relationship is sacred and stuff.”

“Nope,” the girl who hit him replies, “this bitch is all mine.”

A guy with marker scrawled up his arms gestures to Spencer. Maybe not as dramatically as Advocate Guy, but enough. “Go on, go strike up a deal.”

Spencer glares. “It’s not that easy, Pete.”

Pete makes the table rattle as he bends over and bashes his head on the plastic covered particle board. He’s got a rhythm to it; Brendon can hear the timing like he hears in any normal music. When he stops Sisky leans over, chainlink collar rattling, and presses a cool can of soda against Pete’s reddened forehead. Pete allows it for about thirty seconds before he pushes it away.

“Here’s now this works, Spencer Smith.” A tall guy is speaking and Brendon’s almost positive that his name is Gabe. Brendon doesn’t have any classes with him, in fact he thinks Gabe is a senior, but for a week last March Nate wore dog tags of a guy and a girl before he switched to a spike collar. He never got up close and personal with Nate- you don’t do that to someone else’s sub, not even as a sub yourself- but the tags were pretty big, and Brendon thinks he recognizes the face. “You go negotiate with Brendon and pay Jimmy for use of his basement. You do this so you can finally shut the fuck up about him. Dom or put the whip down, dude.”

Spencer’s glaring daggers, and Brendon really didn’t mean for him to fight with his friends. Gabe ignores the look entirely and continues. “If hooking up will make you shut up we’re all for it. Now, if only hooking up with a n-a would make GWay shut up. No offense, Mike.”

The guy with his fingers in Gerard’s collar only says “No worries,” but it somehow sounds much louder than Gerard’s “That goes against their whole thing, Gabe!”

Pete pitches in again, helpfully adding “You know, if you’re scared to say something because you’re secretly a sub, Spence, I don’t think Brendon will have a problem with it. I bet he could take you down hard.”

Brendon’s not sure who’s more horrified by the suggestion, himself or Spencer. But at least he’s just sort of grossed out and uncomfortable. Spencer looks like he’s about to go on a shooting rampage. Which is Brendon’s cue to leave, because regardless of Jon’s opinions all that Brendon can see happening in the near future is Spencer fighting with his friends, and he doesn’t want to be the cause.

“So, uh, okay, see you later.” Brendon turns around and skitters away, trying to not hear Gabe’s _for fucksakes_ , and Pete’s _come on, man_. It’s none of his business, and if he’s not there then the confrontation isn’t his fault.

And then there’s a hand on his back. “Look, that group of assholes are right. I like you. I’m not sure what you’re into, and I’m not an exhibitionist so I don’t want to have a negotiation talk right now. But we could have one later. If you’re interested.”

“Of course! My brain is like, exploding at the possibility of saying no.” Who the heck would?

“That’s good to know.” Spencer smiles and already Brendon feels it, the urge to be the reason Spencer is smiling, to do whatever it takes to make Spencer smile. He can only hope his slant isn’t very exotic.


	3. Protect Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard wants to protect Mikey from mistakes.

"I can't even believe you're doing that."

"Go away, Gee." Mikey types a response to whoever he’s chatting with.

"It's dangerous!"

"You said that before. Leave me alone; I know what I'm doing."

"Goddammit. You don’t know a damn thing about it." Gee's voice rises in frustration. "Mikey, you don't know this guy. He could be anybody."

"He goes to Slate Memorial. I don't think they let in serial killers." Mikey's fingers bump over the keys.

“He could be _anybody_ ,” Gerard repeats. “ _You_ don’t know. How can you trust any of them? They could be lying, they could be forty-year-old serial-- I mean, shut up.”

Mikey rolls his eyes. “Pete does it. You don’t complain about Pete.”

“That’s true,” says Pedicone from the couch.

“Yeah,” says Mikey. He cocks his head and takes a pic with his webcam.

“I’m not _complaining_ , assface, I’m _concerned_! And I don’t give a shit what Pete Wentz does or doesn’t do.”

“That’s because you don’t give a shit about Pete. Even though he’s been my best friend for like three years.”

“It’s not that I don’t _like_ him. I mean, he’s annoying, and he smells bad, but I like him just fine. It’s just that--”

“--you don’t care,” Mikey finishes. “Jesus, Gee, I’m just looking for a dom for a night. It’s not like I’m walking down the middle of Canarsie wearing a ‘Rape Me’ sign.”

“That’s not fucking funny,” Gerard says. “Seriously. No more of this trolling for hookups shit. Give me the laptop and walk away.”

“You walk away,” says Mikey, shoving his glasses up his nose and hunching over his laptop.

“Give it to me.” Gerard reaches for the computer. “Find a dom you already know. A dom _I_ already know.”

“Gerard.” Pedicone’s voice is calm. “Settle down.”

“Go away,” repeats Mikey. “Quit bugging me. Besides, Mom said I could.”

“Mom doesn’t know the shit you’re into!” Gerard pulls the cord out of the wall.

“Neither do you!” Mikey yanks the cord away. “And I have battery power, dumbass.”

“Gerard,” says Pedicone again.

“Mikey, give me the goddamn computer, or I swear to God I’m gonna break it while you sleep!”

“Gerard,” says Pedicone louder. “That’s enough. If you can’t make your point without yelling, you’ll go stand in the corner until you can.”

Gerard waves his hands in frustration. “Dude, he can’t just, I mean, he could--”

“Gerard. Corner. Now. Go.”

Gerard stares at Pedicone for a second, then at Mikey. He glowers and stomps off to the corner behind the couch. “You fucking suck, Mikey,” he mutters.

“No talking,” warns Pedicone, “or I call Ray. Is that what you want?”

Gerard shuffles his feet and glares at the wall. “Sorry.”

“I think he has a new paddle he hasn’t broken in yet.”

Gerard folds his arms and doesn’t say a word. Hell no, he doesn’t want Pedicone to call Ray, because apart from the embarrassment of _anyone_ disciplining him other than his dom, Ray is his best friend, and Ray punishing him would create all kinds of weirdness. Sure, they’ve tested stuff over the last couple years, but getting a paddling because you ask for it is completely different from getting a paddling because you _ask_ for it. He keeps his mouth shut, even though Mikey’s keyboard rattles and it makes Gerard want to put it through the wall.

Why can’t Mikey sub for Ray? Ray’s a great guy. Gerard has known him since the first day of second grade, when Ray was so proud of his fro, even though the girls laughed at it. Gerard thought it was cool and different. Ray would be _awesome_ for Mikey. Gerard’s not entirely sure what Mikey’s slant is, because talking about that with your brother is creepy, but he can’t imagine Mikey wanting anything Ray couldn’t give him.

Mikey shuts his laptop. Gerard can’t see him, but he hears the steps across the floor, and “Be safe,” says Pedicone. The front door opens and slams shut. Gerard folds his arms tighter.

Pedicone’s hands settle onto Gerard’s shoulders. “Are you ready to come out?”

Gerard scowls and looks down. “He’s only sixteen. He’s brand new at this.”

“You have to let him make his own mistakes.” Pedicone kisses the back of Gerard’s neck. “He’s not going to do anything dangerous. He’s smarter than that.”

“He’s _sixteen_. No one’s smarter than that when they’re sixteen.”

Pedicone knocks his forehead gently against Gerard’s head. “You know that wasn’t your fault, right?”

“Yeah.” Gerard pulls his arms in.

“He was domming. He fucked up. Not you.”

“I know.”

“He totally screwed up the negotiation. He--”

“Pedicone, I said I know.”

“Mikey’s gonna be okay. He doesn’t trust people enough to let them harm him.”

Gerard snorts. “You mean he’s not stupid like I was?”

Pedicone gives him a little shake. “I mean, you believe the best of everyone. That’s not a bad thing. Tell me you know that.”

“I know.”

“No, say it.”

“I don’t want to.” Gerard kicks at the wall.

“I don’t care. Say it.”

Gerard heaves a put-upon sigh. “It’s not a bad thing to believe the best of everyone.”

“Tell me you’re not stupid.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“Okay.” Pedicone gives him one last shake and lets go. “Now come on out, and we’ll play Umbrella Chronicles. You got your homework done, right?”

“Everything except algebra. I’ll do it before bed.” Gerard turns around. “Can you stay for dinner?”

“I already cleared it with my mom,” says Pedicone. He gives Gerard a hug


	4. Negotiations and Love Songs Are More or Less the Same (1/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer has been watching Brendon for a long time.

_Meet me at the basement door after school. --S_

Spencer drops the note through the vent in Brendon's locker before his next class. He paid Jimmy twenty bucks for twenty minutes, which is all the money he has on him. He won't tell Brendon. Spence doesn't want him to feel rushed. If they go overtime, maybe Jimmy will let Spencer owe him until next week.

Spencer has to rush to get to art class on time. It’s one of his favorites, because Mr. McCracken is usually hung over and doesn’t do much other than grunt. Sometimes he gives them assignments, but he doesn’t seem to care if they finish them or not. Gerard always does, and he always gets As. But then again, unless you piss off Mr. McCracken, you’re pretty much guaranteed an A.

Today’s class is boring. Spencer sucks at everything he tries to do, and it looks like Mr. McCracken is sleeping at his desk. Pete draws new tattoos on his arms with marker. Gerard looks at them critically. “You should try paint next time,” he says. “You could get a much more subtle effect.”

“I’m not looking for subtle,” says Pete. “I like obvious. You can tell what it means without any bullshit.”

The day drags on. He doesn't see Brendon at lunch, which bothers him more than he'd expect. Conrad asks him where his boyfriend's at. Spencer ignores him. Pete mentions something about Brendon's "domly aura," and comes closer than he realizes to getting punched in the face. Spencer is not in the mood.

-o-

Spence had first noticed Brendon at the beginning of the year. Brendon had just gotten his lunch and was turning to look for a table, when Carden walked past him and slapped Brendon’s tray out of his hands. Everyone laughed. Including Spencer. Brendon looked stunned and hurt for a moment, but he didn’t say a word. He bent down, picked up what he could of the food, dumped it into the trash, and followed Carden to sit at his table.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Carden said when he noticed Brendon sitting beside him. Brendon tried to speak, tripped over his words a couple times, then turned red and just shrugged. Carden rolled his eyes, ignored Brendon, and ate. Brendon looked down at the table and didn’t eat. Spencer looked around to see if anyone else was noticing. No one was.

It made him hard for the rest of the day. He jerked off at the memory three times that night.

Since then, Brendon stayed at the edges of his perception, but what he saw didn’t match Brendon’s behavior in the cafeteria. One day, Brendon would be singing a song from a Disney flick. He had a great voice, and when people looked at him funny, he smiled wide, as if they were applauding. Another day, Brendon would be tapping his feet in Geometry, drumming on his desk with pencils, until Mr. Hall pulled him up to the front of the class for punishment. That didn’t seem to bother him either. Spencer began to wonder if he’d imagined that hurt look on Brendon’s face, or whether what he thought was Brendon’s submission to Carden’s bullying was just Brendon trying to be cool with it. Brendon didn’t show any other signs of a slant at all. Maybe he wasn’t even active.

Spencer tried to put Brendon out of his mind, but on the day Spencer was early to gym, Brendon was late changing back. He came out of the shower room, towel wrapped around his waist, and walked right past Spencer, humming softly. Spencer considered saying something. He didn’t know what to say. _Hi, mind if I tie you up and force you to swallow my dick?_ And then when Brendon dropped the towel and turned his back to dress, Spencer nearly fell on the floor. That ass. God, that _ass_. He had to walk around the bank of lockers before he threw the guy down and fucking ravished him or something.

He and Haley broke up soon after, and following a brief recovery period, he started looking for Brendon. Brendon was nowhere to be found. He slipped out of class before Spencer could say anything, and he never showed up for lunch anymore. Spencer would have tried to track him down, but with Ryan to take care of while Keltie was out with mono, he could hardly chase after another sub. If Brendon even was a sub. As Gerard never tired of reminding Spencer, N-A was A-OK, and Brendon never seemed to indicate he was interested in anyone.

Except Carden. Just that once, maybe, but even that little bit gave Spencer hope.

Spencer started asking around. Ryan didn’t know Brendon. Neither did Gabe, Victoria, or Nate, even though Spencer figured out Nate was in Brendon’s goddamn gym class. Travis had World Lit with him, but didn’t really know anything about him. Gerard thought Brendon was non-active. Pete thought Brendon was a dom. And Conrad just laughed at the whole thing. Asshole.

Spencer trawled online, but Brendon wasn’t on Facebook or Myspace, not even Livejournal. At least, not that Spencer could find. If he hadn’t seen Brendon every day in class, he wouldn’t be sure if Brendon actually existed.

“He’s Mormon,” said Jon one day at lunch.

“Who?” asked Pete.

“Spencer’s crush,” said Jon. “Look over there.” He pointed across the room, where the Mormon kids sat together. No one knelt, because they all saved themselves for marriage. Brendon was with them, talking to a girl who was smiling politely, but not, as far as Spencer could see, talking back. Jon was right. Brendon had that look about him, the clean-cut fresh-scrubbed can-I-tell-you-about-the-church look. Spencer didn’t know why he hadn’t seen it before.

Fuck.

“ _Mormon_ ,” said Pete in delight. “He _is_ a dom! I didn’t know you had it in you, Spence.”

“Fuck you,” growled Spencer.

“You can’t have his babies,” Pete went on, “but I guess his family can overlook that. You can always get a surrogate, right? Name the first one after me.”

“No, seriously. Fuck you.” Spencer was plunged into gloom. It was fucking Carden and Conrad all over again, two doms who couldn’t get together without killing each other. Except that come on, how could Brendon be a dom? Just _look_ at him. No dom would have stood for even the mild abuse Brendon took from almost everyone.

Gerard must have been right. Brendon was non-active. Spencer couldn’t figure out whether that was better or worse. So when Jon told him about the bruises on Brendon’s neck, Spencer thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

-o-

“Mr. Euringer?” Brendon sounds hesitant. “Someone told me to meet him here?”

Spencer isn’t hiding. He’s not. He just doesn’t want to make the same mistakes with Brendon that he did with Haley. Brendon has to come to him. So Spencer got a hall pass ten minutes before the bell rang, and came here to wait.

The basement door opens. “Tell him he’s got fifteen minutes left,” says Jimmy. “If he wants more, he’s gotta pay.”

“Okay,” says Brendon. “Thank you.” He comes downstairs, all skinny legs and big brown eyes, and when he sees Spencer, he looks like someone told him it’s Christmas already. “Hi,” he says. His smile is huge.

Spencer can’t help smiling back. “Hey,” he says. “I’m glad you came. How-- uh, how are you doing?”

“Good,” says Brendon. “I’m good.” His smile widens, if that’s even possible. “So, um, how do we do this?”

“We should sit down first.” Spencer had taken two folding chairs off the wall as soon as he got here.

“You don’t want me to kneel?” asked Brendon.

“Not yet,” said Spencer. “I mean, not unless we decide this is what we both want. You can’t be in subspace when we’re negotiating, or you’ll just tell me what you think I want to hear.”

“Okay,” said Brendon. Spencer wonders if Brendon will just do that anyway. Brendon sits.

“So,” says Spencer, after a pause. “Let’s start with what your slant is.”

Brendon nods like a bobblehead. “Okay. I, uh, I like-- God, this is weird. I mean, sorry, but I just never thought-- okay, sorry, back on track. Okay. I think my slant is, uh, kinda toward edgeplay. I guess you heard about what I did, where I got the bruises?”

“Yeah,” says Spencer. “Doing that yourself is really stupid. Don’t do that again, okay?” He can’t give Brendon orders yet, but he can strongly suggest.

“No, I won’t,” says Brendon. “I wouldn’t have before, but there wasn’t-- I mean, I had to keep it to myself.”

“Is that going to be a problem, if we’re together? How careful about marks would I have to be? I’m assuming you want this to be a secret, cause of the Mormon thing, right?"

“LDS," says Brendon automatically. “And yeah, I don’t-- my parents can’t find out. And if one of the other church kids does, they might tell. So I can’t do anything obvious. Like, I know Jon said I don’t have to kneel in public, and I saw Nate wasn’t, so that’s not a problem, right?” He looks hopefully at Spencer.

“It’s not a problem,” says Spencer. “If you want, you can just tell everyone we’re friends. I mean, they won’t expect you to be a sub, right? Or even with a guy. I don’t know, I’m not --”

“No, you’re right,” interrupts Brendon. “They won’t. They shouldn’t. I can say we’re friends.” He gets a funny expression on his face. “Are we?”

Spencer frowns. “Don’t you want to be?”

“Oh yes,” says Brendon. “ _Hell_ yes. But not just friends, right?”

Spencer smiles. “Not just. No.”

Brendon smiles too. When he smiles, it’s like his whole body lights up. “I’m glad.”

“Me too.” Spencer is most of all glad that Brendon is glad. His stalking doesn’t seem so creepy in the light of Brendon’s eagerness.

“So, uh,” Brendon looks down, still grinning. “Um, what about you? What do you, uh, what would you want from me?”

That’s easy. “Control,” says Spencer. “With a sub, I’m in charge. No argument, no pulling an Iero and acting out. I’m not mean; I don’t, like, punish my subs without a good reason. But they aren’t supposed to give me a reason. Um. Also, I’m kind of a sadist, but I don’t usually break skin. Although I guess you wouldn’t mind if I did, huh?”

Brendon is staring at Spencer like he’s seeing Jesus. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says slowly. “I don’t want to act up. I want to be good. I want to make you happy.”

Spencer can actually feel his heart melting. How is this even happening? He’d figured Brendon was unattainable, and here he is, giving Spencer everything he wants. He swallows. “Well. Good then.” And smiles. “So. Test?”

Brendon beams. “Yes, sir.”


	5. Negotiations and Love Songs Are More or Less the Same (2/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too much is unclear, and Spencer may be getting dumped already.

The next day, Spencer awaits Brendon at lunch, more nervous than he ever remembers being. He doesn’t care that Pete and Gabe snicker at him, or that Gerard pokes him in the ribs hard enough to leave a bruise. He wants his sub beside him, his sub with the big brown eyes and wide grin and ass to kill for.

But Brendon never shows.

Spence’s anxiety turns to disappointment, then to anger. Is Brendon dumping him _already_? After less than a day? What the fuck, he seemed excited yesterday, so where the hell is he?

When Conrad says “Well, guess Pete was right about your boy,” Spencer shoves his chair back and stalks away. He won’t deal with them today. He’s going to find his sub, and shake the shit out of him, and then dump his ass, his very, very fine ass, and never speak to him again.

Spencer checks each stairwell, nearly falling over Bill Beckett crouched over his lunch on the second floor landing. “Do you know Brendon Urie?” Spencer asks him. “Have you seen him?”

Bill shakes his head and looks away from Spencer. Weird. Spencer knew he was shy, but not that he wouldn’t talk at all. “Thanks,” says Spencer, and takes the stairs two at a time to the third floor.

The library is up here. Spencer peeks in, and aha, there in a study carrel, his back to the door, is Brendon. Spencer is at a loss for a moment. What do you say to the guy who’s left you after less than twenty-four hours? But this is supposed to be Spencer’s sub. It’s ridiculous to hover here like he’s afraid of Brendon.

Spencer walks quietly over to him and closes his hand firmly on the back of Brendon’s neck. Brendon yelps in surprise. Mr. Steineckert looks up, scowling. “Any more noise over there and you’ll have to leave. This is not the gym.”

“Sorry,” says Spencer. “I’ll take him outside.” He pulls Brendon up and marches him out into the corridor, where he pushes Brendon’s back against the wall. “I don’t know what you think that was,” says Spencer, “but it’s a shitty thing to do to anyone. So what the fuck? You really are a dom, and you thought it’d be hot to set me up and fuck me over?”

Brendon looks caught between fear and confusion. “Spencer? Sir? I don’t know what you mean, I’m sorry, what did I do?”

“What did I do?” mocks Spencer. “I’m not falling for that again, dude. You know what? Just forget it. Hah, really funny, I hope it was worth it.” He turns to go.

Brendon catches his arm. “Wait, wait, please wait. I’m sorry, but _please_ , please tell me what I did wrong. Whatever it was, I’m really sorry, and I’ll take whatever punishment you want, if you just tell me what I did.”

Spencer looks at him suspiciously. “If you’re fucking with me...”

Brendon shakes his head, eyes wide behind his nerd glasses.

“You--” Spencer tries to convey the enormity of Brendon’s crime. “You didn’t show up to lunch.” It comes out a lot less momentous than it feels. Spencer wonders if maybe he isn’t making this a bigger deal than it should be.

“I didn’t.” Brendon’s face is confused. “I always eat here. Almost always. I didn’t know you wanted me to come to lunch with you.”

“What the hell, dude,” says Spencer. “We’re _testing_. Why wouldn’t I want you to come sit with me? It’s not like I want to fuck you on the table; it’s not going to tip anyone off you don’t want to know.”

“I just.” Brendon waves a hand. “I don’t want to piss off your friends. Last time I thought you were gonna hit someone, and I didn’t want to be the cause of that. I thought you’d like it better if you could be with them, and I stayed out of the way until you wanted me.”

“Brendon.” Spencer rubs his forehead. “I want you. That’s the whole point of this. We can’t test if you’re not there. I want to test. Do you?”

“Yes,” says Brendon. “Of course I do. I just don’t want them to--”

“You let me worry about them,” interrupts Spencer. “That’s my job. Yours is to do what I tell you, and okay, maybe I wasn’t clear before, but I’m telling you now. I want you to come sit with me. At lunch, in Geometry, at Ryan’s, whenever we have time. You’re going to sit by me, and if anyone has a problem with it, they can talk to me. But dude...” Spencer sighs. “They won’t. They’re happy I’m finally going to shut up about you and do something. They have a weird way of showing it, but they are happy about it. I swear.”

Brendon looks at him cautiously. “Promise?”

“Yes.” Spencer rests his hand on the back of Brendon’s neck. Brendon shivers. “Now. Lunch is half over. Have you eaten?”

“Not all of it,” says Brendon. “Do you want the rest?”

“Do I-- no, Brendon, I am not taking your lunch away from you. You are going to take the rest of your lunch to the cafeteria, and we’re going to sit there together until you’re done. Okay?”

“Okay,” says Brendon in a small voice. “I’m sorry I messed up. Thank you for not firing me. Or whatever.”

Spencer shakes his head. “No. My fault. I wasn’t clear enough. I just figured you’d know, but that’s my mistake. You’re going to eat with me from here on out, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Brendon nods vigorously. “As long as it doesn’t--”

“No.” Spencer leans forward. Brendon backs up against the wall. “Not as long as. You are going to eat lunch with me. Do you understand?”

Brendon tries to speak. He can’t. He nods again.

“Okay.” Spencer steps back. “Go get your food."

“Yessir,” says Brendon, and he scuttles into the library.

Spencer sighs. Maybe he should’ve realized Brendon would be skittish, what with everyone laughing at him, plus Carden’s dick move, not to mention the whole Mormon not-dom thing. He should have, but he didn’t. He’s got to learn to ask before flying off the handle, because if Brendon’s first instinct is to retreat, Spencer will constantly be chasing him until Brendon’s gone.

And really, it’s not Brendon’s fault. Spencer grew up with his friends, and he’s used to them. Brendon isn’t. If Spencer thinks about it from Brendon’s point of view... Jesus, no wonder he’s twitchy. Ryan alone is enough to run someone out of town. And Gabe. And Pete. And _Conrad_. Thirty seconds with one of them is enough to scar Brendon for life.

Spencer has to do something to protect Brendon, until Brendon can stand up for himself. Maybe he can start Gerard on a rant when they get back to the caf; it’ll piss Mike off, but Spencer will apologize later. Gee’s a good guy, even while railing against society, and it’ll be impossible for the other guys to get a word in edgewise. Maybe Spencer can pass the word to Travie, get him to stick up for Brendon if the others find space to start in on him. He can definitely talk to Victoria and get her to rein Gabe in for a couple days.

And maybe Spencer himself can stop being a dick and attacking his own sub. Fuck. What kind of dom is he, anyway? Losing his temper like that, when he knows how nervous Brendon is. There’s no excuse. Lunch? Jesus, Spencer is a dick.

Brendon shows up again, lunch repacked in its brown paper sack. “I’m ready, sir,” he says humbly. It’s enough to make Spencer want to kick his own ass.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It was my fault. I’m sorry I blew up at you like that. I just--” He doesn’t want to say it. But Brendon deserves to know. "I was scared you'd changed your mind.”

Brendon’s quiet for a minute. It’s unnerving. “I would never,” he says.

“I know.” Spencer does, now. Now that he’s paying attention. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” says Brendon.

“Yeah,” says Spencer. “I kind of do.”

"Really?" A smile breaks over Brendon's face. "Okay. Then I accept."

Brendon is weird. There's no other word for it. He sings at inappropriate times, he changes moods faster than Spencer can change his clothes, and he wears the ugliest glasses known to man.

Right now, there's no one Spencer would rather be with.


	6. Friction is Sometimes Necessary For a Good Relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer and Brendon have their very first scene together.

Brendon eats dinner faster than he ever has in his life, gulping down macaroni and chunks of hot dog until he almost chokes and Dad has to pound him on the back. The faster he finishes dinner, the sooner he can do the dishes, and the sooner he can get to Ryan's house.

"Okay!" says Brendon brightly. "Thanks, Mom!" He grabs his cup and glass and sticks them straight into the dishwasher, turns around to find the pans on the stove. He finds Mom and Dad staring at him. "What?"

"Who are you," says Mom, "and what have you done with my son?"

"We aren't finished, Bren," says Dad. "And since when have you been so eager to get to the dishes?"

"Well," begins Brendon. "Um. I was kind of, um, hoping I could go out tonight? It's not a school night," he adds hastily, "and I did all my homework already, so I have the whole weekend clear, and I'll mow the lawn tomorrow, so can I go?"

"Who are you going out with?" asks Mom. _Is it a girl?_ isn't said, but it's the question behind the question. Dad looks hopeful.

"Just a friend," says Brendon. "My friend, Spencer." He can't help smiling, because it's the truth, even if only part of the truth. He has a friend, and his friend's name is Spencer.

"Where do you know Spencer from?" asks Dad.

"And how long have you known him?" asks Mom. They know Brendon doesn't have friends. Didn't. He does now.

"He goes to school with me. We have Geometry and lunch together. He's a really nice guy; he gets A's and B's, and we're going to study for the geometry midterm next week. I've known him since we were freshmen, but we just got to be friends." Brendon has to think of everything they'll want to hear. "He's active, but he broke up with his sub a few months ago, because she wanted to see other people." _She_ , Brendon is smooth, he knows what they'll hear in that. The best part is that it's all true. "And we're going over to his friend Ryan's house. A lot of people are going-- it's not a party or anything, just hanging out together."

_"Are Ryan's parents going to be there?" asks Dad after a pause. Mom just looks shellshocked._

_"His Dad is. His mom-- they're divorced." Brendon plays his trump card. "There'll be girls there. Spencer said he'd introduce me."_

_He has them with that, like he knew he would. Brendon's mom hugs and kisses him, which is embarrassing, but he secretly likes it anyway. Dad tells him to be back by eleven-thirty, which is later than Brendon's been allowed to stay out ever. Not that he ever had a reason to stay out before. Brendon would feel guilty about deceiving them, but he's too excited. He can pretend their approval is deserved, that they're happy he's found someone to be with. Hopefully. As long as Spencer doesn't decide he's too much of a spaz to bother with. Brendon resolves to control himself and keep his mouth shut. He doesn't want to ruin things before they have a chance to begin. Once Spencer likes him for real, then maybe Brendon can let himself go a little._

_-o-_

_Brendon's waiting in the driveway when Spencer comes to pick him up. He didn't know what to wear, so he put on his favorite tee, a faded pink one of Kara's that she left when she got married and collared. His jeans are too big on him, because his mom won't buy out of the kids' department for him anymore, so they hang on his hips in a way he hopes looks seductive and not stupid._

_Spencer doesn't say anything, but reaches across and opens the door for Brendon. "I have to be back by eleven-thirty," says Brendon as he slides into the car. "It's really important, okay? If I'm not here on time, they might not let me go out again; they were surprised I was even going out at all, because I never did before, but I think they're really happy about it. Do you have to be back earlier? If you do, that's okay. I can be early, just not--" Too late Brendon realizes he broke his resolution before they've gotten two minutes from his house. God, he is such a failure. "Um, late," he finishes. "Sorry. Do you want me to be quiet? I can be quiet. It's no problem, seriously. I'm quiet sometimes, although I guess it's usually when I'm asleep, and I'm just going to shut up now, okay?"_

_Spencer glances at him, half-smiling. "It's all right. You can talk unless I tell you not to." He doesn't say that he likes it, but that's how Brendon reads it. He wants to throw his arms around Spencer and hug him hard, but he restrains himself, not without difficulty. He doesn't want to get into a wreck and kill both himself and his dom. _His dom._ Brendon hugs himself._

They park on the street outside Ryan's house. The driveway is already full of cars. Brendon wonders if they're making a lot of noise, and if Ryan's dad is going to wake up and chase them away. Then he wonders what they're doing in there, and the thought is so daunting it almost makes him turn around and plead with Spencer to take him home.

Spencer seems to pick up on Brendon's sudden fear. He takes Brendon's hand in his and leads him to the front door. Brendon falls in step behind Spencer as if he's used to it, as if he's done it a thousand times before. It calms him. Spencer is in charge. As long as Brendon obeys him, nothing bad can happen. He's still anxious, but he doesn't move as Spencer knocks and opens the door. A tug on his hand, and Brendon is closing the door behind them.

Ryan's house isn't big like Brendon's, but it's really clean, a lot more than you'd expect without a mother being around. Spencer leads Brendon through the kitchen and into the living room, where the TV is on and everyone is sitting on the couches or on the floor. Ryan's flipping through channels, a bored expression on his face as Keltie combs her fingers through his hair. "Hey, Spence," he says, not looking up.

"Hey," says Spencer. Gerard’s sitting at Mike’s feet, and he gives Brendon a smile and a little wave.

"Hi, Brendon," says Victoria from her position lounging in Gabe's lap.

"Um. Hi." Brendon isn't usually lost for words, but he doesn't think a beautiful girl has ever spoken to him, much less said his name. "How are you?"

She smiles lazily. "Oh, I'm doing all right. I could do better..." She stretches her hand out, and Nate crawls to her and begins to lick it. Brendon tries not to stare. It's not like it's wrong or anything-- well, it kind of is, because they aren't married, but he's past that, right? He'd better be, if he doesn't want this night to end in a horrible mess and be ostracized forever.

Spencer takes a seat and draws Brendon to the floor. Oh. Yes, yes, Brendon is definitely past it, because sitting at Spencer's feet, Spencer's hand-- oh, _God_ , his _hand_ \-- on Brendon's head makes Brendon want to shout that he belongs to Spencer, and it doesn't matter that Brendon's a boy and so is Spencer, or that Brendon's a sub when he's not supposed to be. He presses his head against Spencer's leg.

"Turn it back," orders Spencer. "Ryan, you slut, turn it back. I want to see Invader Zim."

Ryan turns pink, but deliberately flips to a home shopping channel. He crosses his arms. Keltie pinches him. “Do as you’re told, bitch."

He sighs. “Okay, _fine_. Asswipe. Him, not you,” he adds, twisting his head to look at Keltie. He changes the channel back to Cartoon Network and sticks his tongue out at Spencer. Keltie smacks him on the back of the head.

Brendon isn’t sure where to look or what to do. Should he say something? Defend Spencer? Fight Ryan in a duel? The picture of him and Ryan squaring off with swords makes him giggle. Everyone looks at him. It makes Brendon nervous, and when he’s nervous, the words start pouring out of him.

“I just thought it would be funny if I, like, defended Spencer’s honor or something, and I fought Ryan, and I’m not sure who would win, because I’ve never fought anyone before, not seriously anyway, so I don’t know, but Ryan’s bigger than me, so maybe he’d win, but we’d both probably get in trouble, so it’s not really a good idea--” Brendon knows he’s babbling; when does he not babble? He can’t quit. “--I mean, I’ve never gotten in trouble like that before, just grounded by my parents, which doesn’t really count, not that I’m non-active, I know you know I’m not, I just haven’t had anyone to be active _with_ before--” He presses his hand over his mouth to make it _stop._ God, he is such an idiot.

For a second, everyone’s silent. Then Spencer snorts. It releases everyone, and they all start laughing. It’s not mean laughter, Brendon’s pretty sure, because Victoria reaches over and ruffles his hair. He smiles at her hopefully. She smiles back. “Spencer, he is so fucking cute. If I didn’t already have these two...”

“Who says you have me?” says Gabe. “No one tames me, woman. It is I who has you!” He tugs on her hair, and she falls back into his lap. Nate softly gnaws at Gabe’s leg.

“It’d be okay if you were,” says Gerard. “I mean, I know you’re not, but it’s not like it’s wrong, it’s just the way some people are. You can’t _judge_ someone for doing what they feel. Or not doing what they don’t feel. If you don’t have a slant, then so what? Why is it anyone else’s business anyway?”

Pedicone nudges Gerard with his foot. “What did I say about talking?” Gerard frowns, but shuts up.

Spencer clears his throat. “Ryan, is anyone in the guest room?”

“Nope,” says Ryan. “But my dad’s asleep down the hall, so don’t be too loud.” His face is impassive, but one eye droops in a wink at Brendon. Brendon doesn’t know whether he should wink back, so he doesn’t.

“Okay. Scuse us, everyone; Brendon and I need some alone time.” Spencer stands and pulls Brendon up. Brendon’s glad that Spencer keeps hold of his hand and leads him down the hall, because Brendon really _doesn’t_ know what he’s doing, and next time, they might not think it’s cute. He wonders if he’s in trouble already for talking without permission. Spencer said he could talk, as long as he had no orders to be quiet, but he probably didn’t mean Brendon was allowed to blather like a fool. Is Spencer going to punish him already? Jeez, Brendon is so stupid, to have screwed this up on the very first day.

It’s a small bedroom, a double bed, nightstand, and a closet. There’s a sheet spread on top of the bed, which Brendon doesn’t get. Will Spencer make him bleed? Brendon isn’t sure whether that would be bad or good. Spencer closes the door, turns around, and sees the expression on Brendon’s face. He laughs. “Brendon, calm down. I’m not mad at you.”

“Oh. Really? Oh good. I just didn’t know if maybe I wasn’t supposed to be talking so much or anything--”

“Relax.” Spencer steps forward and brushes hair off Brendon’s forehead. “We aren’t the Letos. I told you, if I don’t tell you not to talk, you’re free to say whatever you want. Well, within reason. Don’t go calling me a douchebag or anything.”

“I wouldn’t,” says Brendon fervently. “You’re not. But I wouldn’t anyway.”

“Good.” Spencer gives him a little smile. “Okay. The scene starts now. So. Go over to the nightstand and bring me back whatever you find there.”

“Yes, sir,” Brendon whispers. He can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe his feet are carrying him to the nightstand where he opens the drawer to find-- oh _God_ , seriously, how did he get so lucky-- a blindfold, a bottle of lube, a set of four cuffs, and a ball gag. He scoops the lot up in his arms and carries them back to Spencer.

“Good boy,” says Spencer. Brendon would be wagging his tail if he had one. Maybe Spencer will get him one. “We won’t need these--” Spencer puts the cuffs aside-- “and we won’t need the gag unless you get too loud. I want you to be quiet for me, okay?”

Brendon nods. He wants to tell Spencer how very quiet he can be, but it’s probably better to show him.

“Okay.” Spencer sits in the middle of the bed, legs crossed. “Normally I’d balance you, but since this is your first time, you can lay on the bed. First, put the blindfold on. Then take your pants off. You can leave your underwear on, for now.”

Brendon’s mouth goes dry. This is it, this is _really happening_ , everything he’s dreamed about since he was seven years old, gasping for breath under the press of bodies. Everything goes quiet inside his head. He slides the blindfold over his eyes, arranges the elastic so it doesn’t pinch his ears. He undoes his jeans, slides them to the floor, and kicks them off along with his shoes and socks.

“Come here,” says Spencer. Brendon gropes for the bed. Spencer reaches for his hand and pulls him over his lap, arranging him so he’s comfortable, except for his butt sticking up in the air, which is less comfortable than _oh my God oh my God seriously?_

“Tell me your safeword,” Spencer orders.

“Bassoon,” says Brendon obediently. It’s the one instrument he’s never wanted to play. And then Spencer’s hand lands on his ass and he forgets every word he ever knew.

Spencer doesn’t spank hard, but Brendon can feel it, even through his underwear. It’s not painful, just sort of warm and pleasant. Relaxing, even. He starts to hum, and Spencer stops the spanking. “What are you doing?”

“Huh?” Brendon lifts his head up. “Oh. Sorry. I do that when I’m happy. Sometimes I sing. Do you want me to stop? I can stop.”

There’s a smile in Spencer’s voice. “You don’t have to stop. It’s okay.” He begins spanking again. Brendon lowers his head and goes back to humming.

Too soon, it’s over. Brendon’s about to protest, but Spencer tugs on his underwear. “Lift up, I need to get these down.” Brendon obeys, and Spencer slides his briefs down to his knees.

Spencer spanks harder now, or maybe it’s just because there’s nothing in between Spencer’s hand and Brendon’s ass. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, but the sound is sharper, and it tingles. Brendon bites down on his lip so he doesn’t giggle again. He wonders if this is what being high is like. If it is, it’s _awesome._ And there’s a warm feeling in his stomach, and lower down, that Brendon’s only known alone in his room.

Spencer stops every so often to shake his hand out. It hurts now, but in a good way, even as Spencer increases the strength. It isn’t until Spencer smacks him twice, hard, that Brendon realizes he’s humping Spencer’s leg. His can feel his face and the back of his neck turn hot. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Um, please, I need to...”

“Not yet,” says Spencer. “Soon, but not yet. Hold on for just a little while longer for me.”

Brendon nods and twists the sheet in his fists. His dick is trapped between his stomach and Spencer’s jeans, and every jerk of his body, every slap of Spencer’s hand against his ass drives him against Spencer’s leg. He’s not supposed to, he knows he’s not, but he needs it so bad, needs the feel of something, anything rubbing against him.

It’s embarrassing, but he refuses to be embarrassed. He’s never done this in front of anyone before, but it’s okay, because Spencer is his dom. He’s allowed to if Spencer says he is. The thought brings him right up to the edge, and when Spencer says “Okay,” it’s enough to send him over. He groans, forgetting the injunction to be quiet. Everything turns white in his head, and he’s not sure he remembers how to breathe.

When Brendon regains his mind, Spencer is rubbing the sting out of the spanking. There’s a sticky, slick warmth under Brendon’s belly. Not only did he come on Spencer’s leg, he shot onto the bed as well. “Oh dude,” says Brendon. “Sir. I’m sorry.” That must be what the sheet’s for.

“It’s okay,” says Spencer. “I gave you permission. Nothing to be sorry about.” He helps Brendon sit up and pulls off the blindfold. Brendon winces as his bare ass settles on the bed, but he’s not even a little upset. He blinks up at Spencer, muzzy with happiness.

Spencer smiles a little. “You did really good,” he says. “I’m happy with you. Now do you want to make me even happier?”

Brendon’s glazed eyes widen. “Yes, sir,” he says. “I really, really do.” He doesn’t know what Spencer wants him to do, exactly, but he’ll do anything. If Spencer wants to come in his mouth or do him in the ass-- well, he’s never done it before, but he’ll take it with a smile on his face. Assuming his mouth isn’t full.

Spencer doesn’t want quite that much. He unbuttons and unzips his jeans, dropping them off the bed, and pulls his dick out through the fly of his boxers. “Give me your hand.” He pours a stream of lube into it, then spreads his legs. “Touch it.”

Brendon runs his slick hand down Spencer’s cock, which is already as hard as Brendon’s was during the spanking. Spencer shudders, but nods for him to continue. This is something Brendon has years of experience with-- it may be a sin, but he’s only human. He curls his fingers into a circle and slides it up and down, slowly at first. He takes care not to touch the head, so Spencer has time to enjoy this. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you, sir. I want to be good for you, sir.”

It makes Spencer groan. “You’re very good. You’re such a good boy.” Brendon moves his hand faster. He wants to hear more.

“So... good. Are you gonna-- nnngh-- gonna be this good next time I spank you?”

Just like that, Brendon’s hard again. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, if you want to spank me, you can, and I’ll do whatever you want afterwards. Or before. Or during. Whatever you want, sir, I just want to make you happy.”

Spencer’s flushed, his head tipped back. One hand pets Brendon’s head. “What if I want to cut you? Or put my hands around your neck and squeeze?”

 _Oh God yes please._ “Then I’ll say thank you,” says Brendon, as his hand picks up speed.

Spencer keens behind his teeth. “Say that again.”

“Thank you,” repeats Brendon. “Thank you, sir, thank you _so much_...”

There’s an intake of breath, a hiss, and Spencer’s shooting all over Brendon’s hand. Brendon pumps his cock a couple more times, until Spencer collapses on the bed. Awesome. Brendon is the best sub _ever_. He looks around, finds Kleenex, and wipes off his hand and arm. He takes another to clean up what’s left on Spencer, and finds Spencer looking up at him. Smiling.

“You’re really good,” says Spencer.

Brendon blushes. “Thank you,” he mumbles. “I want to be good.” _I want to be good for you._

Now Spencer looks at Brendon’s cock, stiff and standing again. He smiles, and Brendon blushes harder. “Sorry. I-- don’t worry, I’ll take care of it later.”

Spencer smiles wider and shakes his head. “No, you won’t.”

“Huh?”

“You won’t,” says Spencer. “Not until I say you can.”

Oh. _Oh._ Brendon feels like he must be turning purple. “When-- okay. I mean, yes, sir.”

Spencer sits up, tucks himself back into his boxers. “I’ll text you when you’re allowed,” he says. “I trust you not to touch yourself until then. Can I do that?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.” It may kill Brendon to wait, but submission to an earthly dom is a lot easier than submission to a heavenly one. He waits on his knees for Spencer to get dressed. Spencer does, then tosses Brendon his jeans. “Okay. We’re all done. C’mere.”

Brendon stands up, and Spencer folds him into a hug. “You’re being such a good sub,” he murmurs into Brendon’s ear, and kisses him. “I’m very happy with you.”

Brendon clings. He never wants to let go.

Spencer gently pushes him away after a minute. “Get dressed now. Scene’s over, but you’re still under orders till I text you.”

Brendon gets dressed. It’s a good thing his jeans are loose, because he doesn’t know if he could keep himself contained in the pants his mom took away, the ones she said were too tight for decency. Spencer takes his hand and leads him out of the bedroom, back to the living room where Samurai Jack is on TV and Spencer’s friends are all eyeing them with varying degrees of interest.

Gabe says what they’re all thinking. “So, how was the first time?”

Spencer and Brendon exchange glances. Brendon shifts and tries to adjust himself unobtrusively. “Good,” he says. He grins. “Really, really good.”


	7. Another Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hitch a ride, piss people off, get punished by whichever nearby dom is irritated enough to do it; it's just a normal day of Frank Iero's life.

Frank isn’t popular. There’s a difference between being popular and having a lot of friends and Frank is firmly the latter. Being popular means you care about what others think about you, and work hard to impress everyone. Frank only cares what Gerard, Mikey, Ray, and Tom think of him, and sometimes not even them, and he sure as fuck doesn’t care about impressing _anyone_. He does what he wants to do. If that means one day he’s getting a hideous full leg scrape from BMXing, and the next he doesn’t leave his bedroom because he’s busy reading Jules Verne, well, fuck anyone who thinks you can’t be a speed junkie and a sci-fi nerd. Besides, most popular kids are doms. Tying people up and spanking them are not on his To Do list, and won’t be in the future.

He does have a lot of friends though. He and everyone he knows are friendly bastards, dom or sub. The proper thing to do with friends is hang out with them whenever possible, which inevitably means a full caf table. Mikey has Pete and Gabe, Gabe brings Victoria and Nate. Tom has Jon and Spencer and Ryan and Keltie and Butcher. And then there’s Gerard. He’s Frank’s oldest friend, but there’s no question he’s mental. Gerard wants to be friends with the whole damn school, so he can convert them to openmindedness one at a time.

Luckily for all of them -and their fragile bonds, as his dad likes to say- Ryan has a party house. Well, sort of. Ryan’s dad occasionally wakes up in a bad mood and chases everyone out. Frank will never forget the time Mr Ross threw a lamp at Carden. Not because the shattered pieces hurt anyone, just because Carden brings it up at least once a week. But for the most part it’s a cool place to hang out. At the very least it’s better than being home, with Dad and Grandpa constantly trying to set him up with a good dom. Sure most of his friends are hooked up, but they don’t fucking nag him about finding the right someone. Sometimes it seems like the only thing his dad and grandpa do.

Frank meets Mikey at his locker after class, knowing Pete will be there too. Pete is one of the few of them with a car, and whenever possible Frank likes getting a ride over bussing. It’s not that it’s undignified or whatever; he’s not a fucking tool about public transport. It’s just it’ll take almost an hour. That’s a lot of conversation and video game action to miss out on.

Pete is actually missing, though Mikey is talking to Sisky so he can’t be too far away. He’s leaning a little to the side. His messenger bag over his right hip is probably lighter than Pete’s over his right. Frank won’t tell about the poor posture though, and he knows Mikey won’t either. Though really, Wentz probably wouldn’t care. Sisky cares a lot more about their ‘relationship’ than Pete cares about their ‘arrangement’.

Mikey shakes his head when he sees him. “Sorry man, no mooching today. We’re making a quick stop at Pete’s, then we’re going out. Unless you wanna come get laid?”

“Nah. I’ll pass.” Mikey’s hardly surprised, he just shrugs. It’s not like Frank has anything against the clubs, they work for a bunch of the people he knows. Just not for him. Too formal, contracts and safewords and bowing and shit.

“I know Mike and Gerard are going over?” Sisky offers. “You and Travis were playing Speed most of lunch so I dunno if you were listening, but Spencer and Brendon are going over tonight, and Gerard wants to ‘be there’ for Brendon.” Frank snorts at the air quotes. After ten years of friendship he knows exactly what Gerard’s being there is like.

“Thanks Sisky. I’m gonna bolt.” Some people thinks manners don’t apply for subs, especially service subs. Some people are massive douches.

“I’ll text Ray, get him to park if he’s down the street already.” Frank’s already halfway down the hall, but he throws up a hand in thanks at Mikey. Ray leaves promptly at 3:30 each day, with or without passengers. That’s why most of the time he goes with Mikey and Pete and Sisky, it’s just easier.

Luckily he’s not too far; Frank only has to sprint about a block. Of course he spends half the ride wheezing, but it’s wheezing in a car, not wheezing and getting dirty looks on the bus, so he’s all right with that. There are only a few cars in the driveway, but since they all carpool, three cars does not mean three people. Frank smiles when he walks into a full room. All the more people to battle with Ryan’s Wii. He crashes on the floor. Not because of any sub bullshit; Keltie and Ryan are on the floor, and Nate is on the arm of the chair leaning on Gabe. There’s not much room left on the couches, and he’s a video game player with elbows. The last thing he wants is someone getting in his way.

Gabe looks around. “I’d say we’re all convened, right?”

Keltie laughs. “Convened? Because we’re Congress, right?”

“I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you all my birthday is in two weeks. I expect at least three surprise parties.”

“Because expecting them is totally the definition of being surprised, huh?”

Gabe ignores Keltie valiantly. “They can be themed if you’d like, but they don’t have to be.”

“Dibs on the Christmas themed one. My dads have an entire shed of decorations.”

“Travie, I’d love to kiss you under the mistletoe. But I fear my pup and my Vicky-”

“Victoria, asshole-”

“Would be forlorn. But don’t worry, you’ll totally have a sub by Christmas. Or I’ll rent out Nate.” Victoria snorts and punches him in the arm, and Nate laughs like it’s a joke, but Frank isn’t so sure. Gabe and Pete are close, and Pete loans out Sisky all the time. If they share morals it could happen.

After a while there’s a natural pause in the handful of conversations. Gerard uses the quiet to turn to Mike and turn on the puppy dog eyes. Not as good as Nate, of course, but pretty decent. “Smoke?” Mike shakes his head, not even considering the question. Gerard scowls.

He didn’t want one before, but now that Gerard mentions it it sounds like a great idea. “Well, _I'm_ going to go for a smoke. If you want to come, Ryan?”

Gerard's been a bit sensitive lately, since Mike’s started trying to get him to cut down from a pack a day. Frank only asked because he doesn’t like standing on the back step by himself, but Gee takes it personally. “Suck a dick!”

And, well, now it’s on. “Victoria, do you want to come smoke? Gabe? Travis? Keltie? Brendon, do you smoke?”

Brendon seems a bit terrified to be singled out. “No? I mean not that there’s anything wrong with. I mean. I just. My parents, they wouldn’t. Um. No?”

“You want to try? If Spencer's cool with it?” He’s sort of adorable, even if he’s not the first guy Frank would pick out to be a close friend. It’s a win-win situation, really. First they got to rip on Spencer for months for being a bitch about his crush, and now Spencer’s got his happily ever after.

Frank hears the squeak of an overloaded couch, and the next thing he knows Gerard is kicking him in the head. “Oops.”

“Hey!” Instead of immediately kicking back he looks to Mike for justice. Mike shrugs. Asshole. Whatever, he’ll get Gee back when he comes inside reeking of sweet sweet nicotine and Gee can’t have any.

By the time he’s settling back down on the floor -Brendon has taken his spot playing against Travis, but that’s what happens when there are only two controllers- Gabe has thankfully been able to talk some sense into Ray. On the drive to Ryan’s he was talking about not staying long because he had a bunch of homework. Gabe’s just settling back into his seat with a grin on his face, and Ray’s got his binder opened in front of him. Gabe even uncapped a pen. Frank swoops in for a high five before settling down and reading Ray’s assignment over his shoulder.

The thing is, he’s getting bored. He loves, or at least likes, all the people in this room, but he’s _bored_. And more than that, he’s horny. There are seven doms in the room, but unfortunately for him most aren’t options. Spencer and Brendon are either still testing, or in the honeymoon phase of a new relationship. Frank’s not going to be the douche that tries to fuck that up. Victoria and Gabe have seemingly infinite patience that comes with finding everything amusing; he’s not sure how Nate gets rough treatment out of them, but suspects it would take a while to learn the nuances. And Travis is more the caretaker kind of dom. If he was twenty years older, hairy or balding, he’d be a Daddy.

Which leaves him with the vengeance of Keltie, Mike, or Ray. The problem with pissing Keltie off enough to provoke a reaction is the reaction will likely be Ryan kicking him out. Mike helps him out a lot. Usually it’s a toss up between Mike and Ray. But Ray is sitting right beside him, and he has a easy opening. He’d have to create a plan to get to Mike, and plans tend to mean waiting. Frank’s not good with delayed gratification.

He coughs once, so ridiculously fake that Nate and Gabe look over at him. He pauses a beat, then crashes his hand out into his drink can. Ray scrambles away almost immediately, lifting his binder above his head as he bum-scoots from the quickly spreading pool of grape soda. “Woops, just spilled my soda on your essay. Sorry about that! Accidents happen, right?”

His voice sounds so bubbly and bullshit that even Brendon can tell he’s full of it. Ray’s torn though, not sure if he should give in to punishing Frank. He’ll break, Frank knows he will.

“I guess you better take me to the bedroom so I can learn my lesson.”

“No. Bend over, over the soda stain. Ryan, he’ll clean that up later.”

“Like my dad will notice anyway,” Ryan snorts.

In hindsight Frank probably shouldn’t be so surprised. It’s not like Ray hasn’t taken him down outside of a bedroom before. Just usually it’s with one or two disinterested people. This is the fullest room he’s been in, and if Keltie’s quick resettling on the other arm of the couch is any proof, people are clearly interested in watching him squirm. It lights a fire in him, one that screams _I will not be taken down alive_. Ray will punish him and he will fight and he will lose. It gets Frank’s dick hard just thinking about it.

His arousal is a fact made clear when Ray comes back in from his car with one of his custom paddles and orders his jeans to his ankles. Frank thinks for a second about flipping Ray off, but doesn’t. Maybe if it was just Ray he would, they’re best friends. But the room is half doms, and at that level of disrespect it’s possible they’ll decide as a group he can’t stay. Which is pretty much the opposite of what he wants.

Every impact makes it better. Even when it makes it worse, when it makes him want to scream because it fucking hurts, motherfucker, it’s still better. Ray is pwning him, completely, and finally Frank breaks and shouts. It’s game over, and Ray’s won. “Don’t, I give.”

Ray doesn’t stop. Instead it’s another smack.

“Fuck, I give! Jesus!”

Ray hits him again. “Jesus fuck, stop! You won!” His lip is bleeding from biting it and his ass hurts like a bastard and his skin burns and his ass fucking hurts and Ray doesn’t stop. And everyone is watching and he’s pretty sure any second now Gabe or Keltie is going to burst into mocking applause. He’s going to come in his boxers. Ray hits him again, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. Keltie asks him if he wants a tissue, voice thick and sneering. He’s going to come in his goddamn pants.

After it’s over, Brendon passes Frank his Wiimote with a skittish look. Frank doesn’t need presents. He’s already gotten what he wanted, even if it was a bit more than he’d bargained for- Ray was evidently pretty frustrated. But he’s hardly going to refuse a free turn. He lays on his stomach and picks out Boo, Ray on the couch with the other controller.

While they’re waiting for it to load, Ray asks “Was it worth it?” Frank knows he’s not trying to be a dick, there’s just things that Ray doesn’t get about him.

“Yes. It was great!” He’s not sure how much of that is antagonistic, and how much he means. When he’s coming down, sometimes it’s hard to tell.

Apparently that is the wrong answer. “Okay, then you get to recopy my essay as punishment.”

“Do I look like fuckin’ Sisky to you?” He doesn’t have any problems with service subs, even though some people do. If someone was rude to Sisky, Frank would knock that fucker out. Presuming that Pete didn't do it first by virtue of being there at the time. But Frank wouldn't wait for Pete just because Pete's the dom, not him. Frank thinks some of his friends are over-formal, never mind the Jared/Z type. He can protect Sisky's honour just as well as Pete could. He just has to not take the story home, because that's when his dad tells him he has no respect for relationships, and Frank has to bus over to the Ways before his dad’s formality drives him goddamn batshit crazy. If Sisky’s happy with service than Frank is happy for him. But he sure as fuck isn’t one himself.

“Do it, or leave, because you're being a fucking asshole right now.”

“Ray Toro, you fuckin’ suck.” But whatever, Ray was like three paragraphs in. It’ll hardly take any time at all. Better than going home.


	8. Set Me On Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chiz likes hurting people. Butcher likes being hurt.

“How’s that?” Chiz tightens the ropes.

Butcher tugs at them. “Tighter. Too much play.”

Chiz rolls his eyes, but yanks the lead rope over the pulley until Butcher is nearly on his tiptoes. “That’s as tight as it goes. I’m not suspending you, so don’t even ask.”

“Nah, ‘sgood,” says Butcher, grinning. He’s stretched out like da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, all four limbs pulled as far as they’ll comfortably go. His eyes are already beginning to glaze in anticipation. “Don’t tell me what you’re gonna do this time, okay? It’s better if it’s a surprise.”

“If you want,” says Chiz. He knows half of everyone would think he was crazy for letting his sub dictate the rules, but Butcher isn’t quite a sub. If Chiz says no, Butcher will accept it, but he doesn’t go for the bootlicking or the yes-sir-no-sir liturgy. And it’s not like Chiz cares. Australians aren’t generally noted for their love of formality.

He lays out his tools where Butcher can’t see. He contemplates, then chooses the half-inch cane first. It’s not exactly a warm-up to the main event, but it’ll get Butcher’s endorphins going, and that’ll get him through what’s next.

Chiz stands as far behind Butcher as he can and still get a good swing in. “Did you finish Othello? What’d you think of it?” he says, and lines up the cane.

“I liked it. It was--” Butcher starts, and then Chiz snaps the cane into his ass. “AWESOME. Oh fuck yeah.”

“Shakespeare really gets you off,” says Chiz, grinning. He strikes again, an inch lower. Butcher’s breath catches in his chest. He’d fall forward, if the ropes would let him. “Goddamn. Goddamn, yes.” The welts have already risen, dark red and puffy.

“‘I took by th’ throat the circumcised dog, and smote him thus.’ Nice turn of phrase, yeah? Made me think of you.” Chiz lands four on Butcher’s thighs, and is rewarded with a yell. He comes around to check on Butcher, whose face is reassuringly ecstatic. Chiz gives him a light slap on the cheek. “Stay with me, Butch. We’re just starting.”

“I’m here,” says Butcher, pulling his gaze back to Chiz. “God. Never leave. Or maybe I can go back with you when you do.”

“No plans before I give you a ring,” says Chiz, grinning, and steps back to give Butcher another six. Butcher pants his way through them. The muscles of his arms and back clench at each stroke, but just as he demanded, there’s no play in the ropes to let him pull. Chiz puts the cane down and comes right up behind Butcher. He can feel the heat pouring off Butcher’s body, the sweat beginning on his skin. “There’s lots of time before then, anyway. Lots of time for me to do this.” Chiz places his hands on Butcher’s shoulders, leans his head in, and bites hard at the junction of neck and shoulder. Butcher groans. Chiz leaves teethmarks behind. “You’re such a slut,” he says affectionately, slapping Butcher’s ass to reawaken the welts.

Butcher’s laugh is shaky. He’s flying with the pain. “That is the truth.”

“I’m giving you fair warning,” says Chiz. “If you want to safeword, better do it now. Cause the next thing I do is _really_ gonna hurt.”

“Fuck you,” says Butcher. “Bring it.”

 

Chiz opens the cellophane wrapping and taps out a single cigarette. He snaps open his lighter, sparks it up, and breathes deep. “Last chance.”

Butcher must be able to smell the smoke, if not hear the flick of the lighter. He shakes his head. “Ready. Come on.”

Chiz shrugs, takes another drag, and stubs the cigarette out between Butcher’s shoulderblades. A screaming laugh bursts out of Butcher’s throat, and his head falls forward. He’s shivering and panting for air. Chiz comes around again, lifts up Butcher’s head by his hair, checks his pupils. They’re large and dark, his eyes glassy. “Fuuuuuuuck,” he mumbles. “Do ‘gain. Muhfuh.”

It’s a match made in hell, a guy who not only will take what Chiz wants to hand out, but who begs for more. Chiz wonders if he can work his way through the whole pack. He lights up another one, gets it going nicely, then presses it against the back of Butcher’s neck. Butcher’s scream is choked this time, ending in a hollow groan, but as always, he laughs. “‘m burnin’,” he slurs. “Burnin’ up for y’r loooooove. Hit me ‘gain.”

“One more,” says Chiz, “then we take a break. Your mum’s gonna kill me if you pass out again.” The third one sizzles on Butcher’s left shoulder. Chiz can smell the cooked-meat odor. It makes him hungry.

There’s a knock at the door at the top of the stairs. “Boys? Is everything all right down there?”

“Yeah, Mrs. Mrotek!” calls Chiz. “We’re fine.”

“What’s going on?”

“Just burning Andy with cigarettes.”

There’s a pause. Mrs. Mrotek’s voice is disapproving. “I didn’t know you smoked, Michael.”

Butcher snorts and giggles helplessly. “I don’t,” says Chiz. “It’s just for the scene, I promise.”

“Do you have enough first aid supplies down there?”

“, Mom,” shouts Butcher, “We’re _fine_ , okay? Jesus!” He howls the last, as Chiz slaps the burn on his shoulder.

“Be polite to your mum, arsehole,” says Chiz. “Yes ma’am, we have three kits down here. We’re good.”

“All right then. Have fun. But if he passes out--”

“--I’m paying for the ambulance, yes ma’am, I know. He won’t.”

Butcher giggles again when she leaves. “You’re such a fucking Eddie Haskell. ‘It’s only for the scene, ma’am.’ What the fuck.”

“She’s nice to me,” says Chiz. “And she _didn’t_ make me pay for the ambulance the first time, so be nice to her, or I won’t do this anymore.” He picks up a flogger with twisted rubber tails and slams it across Butcher’s ass.

“Oh Christ, you _fuck_.” Butcher’s laugh is high, nearly hysterical. “You got me, fucker. Okay. Okay, I’ll be nice. Don’t stop.”

“Not likely.” Chiz grins. Until the day he has to go back home, he’s not going to stop. This is too hellishly sweet to let go.


	9. The Ties That Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jepha witnesses the formation of a relationship at school before going home to his girlfriend.

Jepha loves being a guidance counsellor. He likes to see teens when they’re falling apart so he can stitch them into a whole again, or at least figure out what they need for that to be possible. Helping teenagers make a handful of their fundamental life choices is also a shining star of his job. He’s not the sex ed teacher at Timmons. Some high schools combine the two, and schools with even smaller budgets just have the gym teacher or another staff volunteer do it. Thankfully this district knows the importance of keeping the jobs separate. Still, it became clear about two days into the job that he’s essentially the problem solving teacher, and the primary issues of the teen fourteen to eighteen are universities, drama with friends, drama with parents, drama with their sub or dom, and questions about slants. Jepha does his best to direct the last to Mrs Aguilera, but if a kid is breaking down in his office because he likes having sex against trees and _is that weird_ Jepha’s not going to send them away.

It’s not always people coming in to him in his office. Sometimes a kid has a panic attack and needs to be escorted away from a test. Jepha understands high achievers -tries to understand everyone- but wishes they wouldn’t make their lives so hard. Or sometimes a dom snaps after being reprimanded in class, feeling they’ve been treated beneath their worth. There have even been times where he has to meet a teen’s parents in their home, if the dom has specific rules about where and when the sub can go.

This time Brian calls him to his office. He meets Jepha outside it, signalling there’s a larger issue that Jepha needs to be prepared for. The thick doors are essentially soundproof for when they have to discuss strategy for a difficult parent. “Frank Iero and Matt Cortez had a fistfight.”

Jepha blinks. “But they both swung?” He hopes. If they didn’t they’ll have to call the cops.

“Yes. Frank started it but Matt most assuredly finished it. But they won’t tell me reasons. I don’t know if it was a violence thing or a sex thing.”

“Does it really matter? You have to discipline then either way.”

“Yes but to be perfectly honest-”

“Wouldn’t ask for anything less,” he interrupts with a smile. Brian’s not exactly the most subtle person.

“I’ll have to make a bigger fuss if it’s a slant thing. You know we can’t have sex in school.”

Jepha very carefully doesn’t think of Jimmy’s side business in the basement. What isn’t reported can’t hurt anyone. For a few of the students at Timmons it’s the only outlet they have.

“Two sided violence and I just have to phone their parents. Foreplay and I have to have another goddamn assembly about sex life and educational life being completely different.” Brian stops pinching the bridge of his nose to gesture at the door. “You’re the nice guy with the big smile, make them tell you. Figure that shit out. It’s what I pay you for.”

It takes about thirty seconds to figure out it’s a sex thing. He doesn’t walk in on them making out, although that’s happened a few times in his tenure. It’s just obvious, there’s a thread between them. He can’t help but wonder how Brian missed it. He probably doesn’t see students as sexual beings with slants. He can afford to ignore that, in fact it’s probably better if he does. Jepha can’t do the same.

Each are sitting straight up, limbs rigid, agitation running through them clear as day. They both have split lips, but the boy in the red shirt has matching pinked skin. Jepha doesn’t need eye witness reports to know he got beat down hard, and he doesn’t need to ask to know they both feel strongly about it. He doesn’t think the emotions running under their skin are just from being interrupted mid-scene either, though he doesn’t enquire. Neither seem the type that want to unburden their souls through talking. Jepha’s been working long enough, been a human on Earth long enough to know that some people are just full of tension that explodes out in one way or another, and no amount of talk can help.

Still, they have to say their lines. He tells them they can’t scene actively at school. They tell him some line about not meaning to. Jepha almost believes them, but it doesn’t matter. He still needs to tell Brian and watch him put his principal Schechter hat on. The transformation would be magical if he hadn’t seen it a thousand times over the years.

The rest of the day is more typical. A few issues about friends, a panic attack, a girl who’s getting shit from her friends for having two subs. Jepha listens to what they say, and tries to hear what they don’t, and hopes that the solutions he helps them patch together will work.

It’s a good day, but the best part of any day is going home. How can it not be, when Lisa is at home? He doesn’t have any after school meetings, so as the bell rings and the students dash out, Jepha follows them. Hell, he almost blends in. He’s shorter than half the male students.

After parking the car he knocks on their front door. A moment later she answers it. He’s not sure what he would do if she didn’t. Probably sit on the step and wait. He has a key for the few times he comes home to an empty house, but that’s different. Lisa’s still in her work clothes, she only gets home a half hour before he does. Just looking at her makes him smile. She’s perfection, and he’s hers. Which means sometimes he can be perfect too.

He follows her inside and puts his bag on the mat. Without gravity working with it, half the shit inside will probably fall out as the flimsy sides collapse, leaving him to grumble the next morning when he has to pick it all up. Every morning he thinks about getting a few hooks for the wall. Every evening he’s in such a hurry to get home that _purchase hooks_ could be tattooed into his skin and he would still forget.

“Have you been good today?”

With the first of her questions, he can feel the thing inside himself settling. Not every professional has a slant directly opposing their job requirements, the daycare worker that needs a Daddy is just as much of a television trope as the butcher that likes bloodplay. But Jepha doesn’t care if he’s a cliche. It works for him. He spends most of the day asking probing questions and listening for answers, and then he goes home to Lisa and answers everything without hesitation.

“Yes.”

“You always say yes. Give me an example.”

He owes the teens their privacy, but his duty to his dom is to do what she asks. It’s a line doctors, lawyers, and therapists everywhere have to worry about. Legal and moral requirements do not always align perfectly with relationship requirements. “I helped a boy decide pursuing his wanted major of sociology was more important than his parents demanding a useful trade. He’s putting together essays now.”

“That’s pretty good.” She puts her pinky in his gauge and pulls. He keeps his head still. “Do you think it’s good enough?”

Always answer questions, even when you don’t know the answer. “I don’t know what it is. What the scale is.”

“Good answer.” She smiles, and it’s an intravenous injection of pride. “Collecting all the facts, anyone ever tell you you’re brilliant? For my cock Jepha. Have you been good enough for my cock?”

There are only two answers. “Yes.”

“Confidence. Oh, aren’t you _full_ of good personality traits. I like that answer too. Bench.”

Jepha throws his clothes onto the couch as he goes. A one word sentence with a location always means be there naked.

The bench is beautiful. Back when he was a poor college student it was the only flat surface larger than a textbook in his apartment, lumpy and stained couch/bed not counting. His countertops were non-existent, but he had his bench. He probably would have punched someone if they’d tried to make a meal off it.

“On your back.” He complies immediately. Lisa isn’t the type to deny sex if he doesn’t move fast enough, but his want is making him eager. The vinyl is cool against his skin, but he knows how sweetly warm it’ll get soon.

“I’m tying you down. And then I am fucking you.”

He watches her strip off her clothes. Unlike him she hangs her pants to wear again, and tosses her shirt in the laundry basket. Nude, she opens one of the drawers in the toy dresser and gazes in. Her back is to him, but Jepha’s sure she’s biting her upper lip as she thinks. The combination she picks is one of his favourites, the clear vinyl harness with the six incher that matches her skin tone perfectly. Usually they don’t mix intoxicants with play, but if he was stoned he wouldn’t even be able to tell it wasn’t her flesh. That’s how perfectly it blends.

Straining his neck, he can see her spit on her hand and start stroking her cock. Her eyes flutter closed like she can feel it. He doesn’t grab his dick. He wants to, and she hasn’t told him not to, but she hasn’t told him to either. He wants to be good.

She leaves the room and comes back with grape licorice rope. He doesn’t say anything -there’s no reason to, she hasn’t asked a question- but eyes it with interest. He hopes she’s about to do what he thinks she’s going to.

Lisa sits on his thighs, tip of her cock brushing against him. She grabs his hand and Jepha gives it easily. She rests it flat on the vinyl and ties his wrist loosely to the closest of the rings running the side of the bench. The licorice is still room temperature, not sticky yet. She does the other wrist, then crawls up the bench, careful to not rest her knees anywhere that puts stress on the rope. A longer piece goes through each gauge, tying his head to the uppermost rings.

“You’re gonna be so still for me. You can scream, and you can cry, but don’t you dare move.”

He knows how fragile the rope is. He’s eaten it more times than he can count, it’s just about his favourite candy. And he still can’t help but twitch when two lubed fingers slide into his ass with no warning.

“I don’t have to explain what happens if they break, do I?”

“No,” he answers. If any of the pieces of licorice break, she’ll stop. She’ll kneel at the end of the bench and reach under her cock and get herself off while he strains his eyes to catch as much as he can in his peripheral vision. Or maybe she’ll kneel over his face and he’ll get to watch her wetness drooling down her leg. But she’ll stop fucking him, and she’ll come and he won’t.

She hasn’t tied his legs, so when she enters him Jepha can at least arch his feet and curl his toes. But it’s not enough, not when he can’t thrash his head or throw his arm over his eyes. Lisa doesn’t fuck him every day, but when they’re doing this he thinks she could do it twenty times a day every day for the rest of his life and he wouldn’t get sick of it. It wouldn’t be much of a rest of his life, he would pass out and die long before his seventies, but it would be a brilliant way to go. It’s just so goddamn exquisite.

When they started she used to have a timer to make sure she didn’t fuck him for too long. Now she’d only use it to set challenges for him, different lengths of time given for him to come before she took away that right. Tonight he doesn’t need a timer. Not being able to move is making everything worse-better-worse-better, harder-realer-just _intense_ , and he doesn’t know how much longer he can stand this.

Lisa’s rhythm stutters for a minute, and he knows she’s come. He wants to reach and feel the way her cunt is quivering, or at least touch her lips and jawline. But he can’t, because it’ll break the strings and if she stops moving her cock inside him, he might die.

Once she picks up the motion again, she doesn’t stop until Jepha’s shuddering his release, shakes of his stomach and hips that he tries to not let carry up his body or down his arms. She pulls out while he’s shaking and fingers the rim of his asshole once before pulling her fingers away too.

“Please undo the ropes so I can kiss you.”

“Okay.” She bites through either curled around his wrist, then shimmies up the bench for the other two. Once he’s free she lies on top of him for a kiss. She tastes like grape.


	10. Moshing With Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank is pretty much a genius; he's figured out how to fight himself. The Ties That Bind gives this context.

Frank was hard when he took the first swing, he was hard when Matt smashed him into the floor, and he’s hard now, in the back seat of Pete’s car. He didn’t stay hard the whole afternoon-- he doesn’t have some kind of medical problem-- but every time he thinks about it he gets another rush of blood and has to adjust himself. He sneezes and the seat belt pulls taut against his ribcage with the movement. His ribs scream in protest, and there goes his dick, again. Mikey doesn’t say anything sitting beside him, and Pete and Sisky probably can’t see it in the rear view mirror; he’s not that big. Still, it’s just a matter of time. One of his asshole friends is going to notice and smirk before the evening is out.

There’s only one reason he’s going to Ryan’s instead of heading straight home to jerk off a dozen times. That reason is obvious the minute Frank walks in the door, and Gerard goes from resting his head on Mike to sitting up straight. He even clears his fucking throat. The strategy is essentially to head Gee off at the pass. If he lets him lecture now, when he’s only known about the fight for a single period, if that, his speech will be stream of consciousness, disjointed, and short. If he gives Gerard time to stew, tomorrow at lunch he’ll have what’s essentially a bulletpoint list.

Sure enough, it meanders. Gerard starts off strong with questioning slants, then moves to bullies, then to violence, and sputters to a halt at power hungry doms that treat everyone like their subs. A few people seem to think it’s bullying, and he gets concerned looks from Spencer and Travis. But most are more occupied with tossing out fruit combinations than worrying about him possibly having been beaten up. Apparently Brendon makes a mind-blowing fruit smoothie, and once Sisky has a list he’s going to go get a handful of produce for Brendon to create with.

Frank shouts grapefruit half a dozen times, just to be heard. He probably won’t drink it if Brendon happens to make it. An entire shelf of the fridge at home contains different Slurpee cups full of different blends of smoothie. His dad has a weird obsession with fresh fruit; he wrote a college thesis on something like the effects of fructose post scening. Frank doesn’t know it exactly, since he tends to tune out when Dad talks about the good old days. Still, it’s nice to voice an opinion.

It’s easy to get distracted from Guitar Hero. The way it makes him hold his arms, he can see how he’s starting to bruise. Not a lot, it’s still nothing more than the faintest periwinkle. But they’re there and they’ll get bigger and blacker before they start to fade. It’s enough to get him hard again. When he fails Say It Aint So, he gives the guitar to Keltie.

He should wait until he gets home to get off. Not that there’s anything wrong with Ryan’s house; it’s not like he and Ray haven’t done stuff before. But what he does alone is noisy, and the sounds will attract attention.

He can’t wait. It’s less than five minutes later when he makes some excuse about going to the bathroom and practically sprints down the hall. Throwing himself at the vanity is a huge relief, pressure against his dick while at the same time letting the counter bite into his hipbones. The first time his aim is a little off. The second time is better. Fucking delicious, actually.

It doesn’t take long, but even without the noise, it would be long enough to be suspicious. His friends aren’t stupid. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t ask to use Ryan’s guest bedroom, they all know. No one says anything, not even Gee. Maybe he got it out of his system before. It makes it better, somehow, that they know.

By the time Pete and Sisky are ready to go, Frank’s ready to up the pleasure. He begs a ride and Pete nods his head for him to follow. He’s not on the way to Pete’s, but Pete doesn’t give a shit. If he minded driving Sisky would be doing it. As it is, Frank will be dropped off, then the other two will hang out all evening, Sisky will bike home around midnight, then be at Pete’s at eight to wake him up. Frank can’t imagine getting out of bed a minute earlier than absolutely necessary, but then it’s probably something Sisky considers necessary.

He shouts a hello as he enters the house, not bothering to see who’s actually home. Poking his head in the living room will almost undoubtedly end in some kind of argument, the issue depending on whether it’s Dad or Grandpa or both. Frank doesn’t have time for that right now. He just wants to get to his bedroom.

Most people wouldn’t consider a closet a sex toy or even equipment. Frank does. It’s not that a person can’t bruise themselves. There are shops full of toys, and thousands of websites, and Aguilera has a self-flagellation pamphlet. But it’s too methodical for him. He doesn’t want to build up the pain, he wants to be completely overwhelmed. The best thing he can do if he doesn’t want to provoke a response from someone else is to use his closet.

The procedure is the same tonight as any other night. Frank closes his bedroom door -he knows better than to lock it, you never lock the door when you’re self-scening- and turns on music. It’s not much of a sound barrier, but there’s something about The Offspring that makes his body gear up. It’s probably half conditioning, but it still works. He takes maybe five minutes to unhook all the hangers from the clothing bar and toss them onto the bed, a field of black on green sheets. The deliberate mess still isn’t as messy as when Gerard or Mikey have ‘cleaned’ their rooms, a fact which is equal parts funny and scary.

When the bar is clear he walks in the closet and slides the door closed behind him. It’s one of the good things about being short. He might get shit from relatives, and he might have to push past all the tall assholes in a mosh pit if he wants to actually see the band, but he doesn’t have to worry about cracking his head on the wardrobe bar. There’s a thin line between hurting yourself and damaging yourself, one Frank isn’t quite stupid enough to cross.

It would be nice to secure the door, but he hasn’t figured out a mechanism for it yet. When he gets his own place, an apartment after college, it’ll have a closet with doorknobs. Or maybe by then he’ll have been convinced by Mikey to join a club, and he won’t get off at home at all. For now the best he can do is tuck the sliding door into the wall and launch himself in the opposite direction, towards the back of the closet.

There’s no room to build up momentum, no room to do anything. Which, with the logical part of Frank’s brain, the part that doesn’t care about getting off, he recognises is good. If he can’t get any momentum, he can’t move hard enough to break the drywall. Still, it’s a decent impact. The cool drywall bashes right against the bruise on his hip. When Matt finally dropped him, he hit the floor hard. The bruise is about palm sized, and when it hits the wall it lights his slowly darkening leg on fire. He breathes in for a second, then throws himself against the opposite corner.

The more he crashes the hotter his skin get, and the hotter the air around him gets. He’s breathing his own discarded air, and just like when he goes down, it’s a struggle. The walls seem to close in on him. It’s nice. It’s more than nice, it’s fucking great. The walls are breathing, shuddering in and out on him like a sea of moshers. He’s getting dizzy. It’s impossible to say whether it’s the constant movement in blackness not letting him have a reference point, the lack of cool air, the endorphins that come with his body aching. Whatever it is, it’s a head rush. It’s the same symptoms of getting beaten, or at least close enough that he has to cling to the bar with one sweaty hand, panting, the other hand curled around his dick. If he kept going, kept smashing himself and thinking about Matt’s hands and knees and feet, he could probably come without jerking off. But he needs to touch himself, to connect to something in the infinite space of his closet.

Frank doesn’t get an icepack when he’s done. There are more sore places than not sore, and he doesn’t want to keep down any swelling. He does pour some of the premixed smoothie into a smaller glass, once he gathers enough energy to go downstairs. Enough banana to even out his system, enough ice cream and fruit sugar to make it taste good.

In the hallway, he passes his dad. Frank holds his breath, waiting for the comment. It’s oddly silent, and after a few eternal seconds Frank moves by him to climb the stairs. Either he didn’t hear the thumping or he’s choosing to not pick this battle. Frank doesn’t care. As long as he wasn’t interrupted his dad could have been busy with a giraffe in the living room.

The thing is, he reflects, sitting against his tv stand, not quite up for hanging up six weeks worth of merch shirts. The thing is, it’s not enough. With no one watching it’s not enough. There’s a difference between having an orgasm and being in ecstasy, and he can’t reach the second alone. It’s not how his slant works. Which means he’s only got one choice left. He needs to make this morning happen again.


	11. We Found a Witch (May We Burn Her?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria may or may not be a witch, but Gabe is definitely a dick.

“It’s too hot,” Gabe complains.

“I swear to God, Gabriel, if you don’t quit bitching I’m going to tie you up and let Nate have his way with you.” Victoria fusses with her French hood, staring into her reflection in the car window. Nate looks startled, then worried. “Calm down, puppy,” she says. “He’ll behave.”

“If I don’t die of heat exhaustion first.”

“You’re the one who wanted to wear velvet. Suffer.”

“I like my outfit,” Nate volunteers. Victoria gives him a pat on the head. “Good boy.”

“At least I have a cape,” Gabe says, swirling it around his ankles. “Every man should have a cape. Well, not peasants,” looking archly at Nate, “but every man who is me should have a cape.”

“If you don’t behave,” says Victoria, “I am going to hurt you when we get home. And it won’t be a fun hurt. Come on.”

Inside the village, the trees shield them from the worst of the sun. Gabe cheers up and drags them over to a jeweler with a display of shiny metal collars. “Want something new, pup?” he asks Nate.

Nate shakes his head. “Those are people collars. I like mine better.” The spikes make him feel dangerous, like a bad dog that might bite if someone isn’t careful.

“It is kind of unwieldy,” says Victoria. “ _Someone_ didn’t really think it through.”

“I like mine,” says Nate stubbornly. Gabe gives Victoria a haughty look. “Quiet, wench, or I’ll have you thrown in the dungeons. Do they have dungeons here?”

“I’ll have them put you on the rack,” says Victoria. “Okay, no new collars today. Moving on.”

There’s a lot to buy here. It’s a permanent installation, not a renaissance fair but an entire renaissance-era village. There’s a blacksmith who pounds on glowing hot iron, a chandlery where women dip candles, an outdoor oven, an armorer, a glassblower. “Will he make me a bong?” asks Gabe. Victoria rolls her eyes. Nate giggles.

“The king approaches!” calls someone. “Long live the king!” Everyone around them sinks into a deep curtsey, or kneels with hat in hand. Victoria and Nate do the same. “You’re kidding,” says Gabe. Victoria grabs him by the wrist and drags him down. “You are ruining this for me,” she hisses. “Get into the spirit, or so help me God, I will keep Nate at my house and you won’t come for a week. Got it?”

Gabe sighs, put-upon like no one else. “Fine,” he says, whips off his hat, and bows his head. “Hail to the king.”

-o-

It used to make Nate uneasy when Gabe and Victoria fought. Sometimes it didn’t even seem like they liked each other, even though bringing Gabe into their relationship had been Victoria’s idea. Nate was happy to go along with it-- he wasn’t entirely sure about Gabe at the start, but he trusted Victoria’s taste. It wasn’t long, though, before they began to snipe at each other, and Nate had waited for one or the other to order him to take sides. They hadn’t, and gradually he’s gotten used to their taunting back and forth. Sometimes the fights are real, and Victoria’s cutting and cold, while Gabe is viciously sarcastic. But mostly a fight ends with one or the other flat on their face, being driven into the bed.

Today is that kind of fight.

-o-

Gabe throws himself into the experience wholeheartedly, enough so Victoria’s mollified for a little while. They visit the theatre to watch an abridged production of Love’s Labour’s Lost, and Victoria sends Nate to get her a frozen orange. When he returns, he finds Gabe on one knee. “For I do love thee, my lady, with a love everlasting, or at least so long as the intermission shall last. But then must my heart return to the fair Rosaline, for she far outshines my lady in beauty as the golden retriever doth the pit bull.”

Nate sits down and munches on the orange himself, watching the show. He’s not disappointed. Victoria slaps Gabe, who grins back at her. “What ho, my lady! What ho, my love! What love, my ho!”

Nate laughs. Victoria turns to glare at him, and he shrugs. “He’s using the right words, at least,” he points out. “Sort of.”

Victoria gives up, sighs, and shakes her head. “I can’t take you two anywhere,” she says, gathering her voluminous skirts around her. “All right, fine. We’ll go.”

Aw. Nate’s a little sad for her, but it’s not for him to argue. That’s Gabe’s job, which Gabe is not at all interested in performing. Well, at least they’ll get home in time for Nate to get a start on his English paper. Maybe he can pull some bullshit analysis of Love’s Labour’s Lost into it and get an A. Well. Maybe a B.

They’re nearly at the entrance when they see a court fool leaping at the head of a procession of soldiers and a sour-faced man in a long brown robe. “Make way for the Witchfinder!” shouts the fool. “The Witchfinder approacheth! Bring out your witches!”

All three look at each other simultaneously. “No,” says Victoria, as a delighted smile spreads across Gabe’s face. “Yes,” he says. “Oh, Witchfinder!”

Well. Nate guesses they won’t be leaving after all.

-o-

She is going to kill him. She is going to _kill him dead_. The Witchfinder’s minions had taken her by the arms and marched her to the nearby stage, set up as a trial court complete with prisoner’s dock and dunking tank. Backstage she’d signed the release forms, and they’d taken her dress away, promising to keep it from getting dirty. She had taken out the pins that held up her braids into their twisted crown. Now she stands in the dock, wearing only her shift, her long brown hair loose around her shoulders, glaring at Gabe. Gabe kisses his fingers at her and waves. He rests an elbow on Nate’s head; Nate puts up with it patiently.

“All rise for the Witchfinder!” The man takes the stage and steps into the judge’s bench. He bangs on the desk with his gavel, which Victoria is pretty sure isn’t period, but whatever. “Let the accused stand forward,” the Witchfinder says in a reedy voice that nevertheless projects out over the crowd.

Victoria takes a step. Maybe this is where she gets to defend herself. “Lady Victoria Asher,” she says, “and I am not a witch, my lord. In fact, I accuse him.” She points at Gabe.

The head minion beside the bench frowns. “The little one? Guards, fetch the little one,” he calls.

“No!” Victoria nearly stamps her foot. “The big one. With the stupid grin, that one.”

The head minion shrugs. “Guards, fetch the big one,” he calls, but the Witchfinder bangs his gavel again. “No one will fetch anyone,” he says. “We will not take the word of an accused witch.”

Victoria almost laughs. Of course they won’t. Gabe looks smug, and she is itching to wipe that smirk off his face and make him pay. A month, he’s not going to get to come for a _month_ , not unless there’s some serious repentance going on...

“Now, Lady Victoria,” says Witchfinder. “You are accused of witchcraft, that you did cause the cream in the village jugs to sour, the butter not to turn, and the bread not to rise. Do you deny the charges laid against you?”

“I do, sir.” No harm in being polite. Maybe it’ll protect her from the dunk tank, although she’s pretty sure that’s unlikely. “My lord Gabriel was merely jesting. I’m sure he’s sorry for it now--” and if not, he will be-- “and wishes to retract his words.”

“I am not,” calls Gabe from the audience, “and I do not. She bewitched this poor lad here and made him believe he was a dog. He ran about on his hands and knees and tried to lick his own--”

“That will do,” interrupts the Witchfinder hastily. “Is the boy still bewitched?”

At a look from Gabe, Nate drops to his hands and knees and barks. Oh for God’s sake. Victoria is going to kill them, then lock Nate in a closet, then kill Gabe again for good measure.

“Apparently, sir,” Gabe says, nudging Nate with his foot. Nate whines and presses his head against Gabe’s thigh. “Though I have to say, he’s a good dog. Doesn’t bite or anything.”

“What more proof do we need?” calls someone from the audience. “She’s a witch!” He begins chanting, and the crowd takes it up. “Witch! Witch! Witch!”

“Now, now.” The Witchfinder’s high voice cuts through the noise. “Before condemning her, there are three tests a witch must undergo. Test the first-- does she sink or float? Guards, to the ducking stool!”

Oh, Victoria gives up. It’s just a show anyway; it’s not like she’d actually get an opportunity to defend herself. And it really is a hot day. She lets them tie her to the stool, protests for form’s sake, and holds her breath as they slide her down the ramp and into the water. Hey, look at that, the tank is shallower than it looks, and she sinks in only up to her neck. She’s floating. What a surprise.

“Witch!” calls the crowd. She can’t see Gabe, but she can bet he’s cheering along with the rest of them.

“The accused,” says the Witchfinder, “has failed test the first. Test the second! Bring forth the scales!”

The minions pull her out of the tank and cut the ropes. Her shift is plastered to her, her hair sticking to the back of her neck. A breeze makes her shiver. They pull her to a giant set of scales, where a brass-bound Bible rests on one side. “If,” says the Witchfinder to the crowd, “if she weighs more than the Bible, she is full of its truth, and is not a witch. But if she weighs less...”

“Witch!” shouts the crowd gleefully.

Victoria sits on the other side of the scales and swings her feet. They release the catch, and to her not-surprise, she lurches up, not down. That book must be made of iron or something.

“Witch!” shouts the crowd again. She can see Gabe and Nate from up here. Gabe is grinning like a lunatic, and Nate is still on his hands and knees by Gabe’s side. They had told him no puppy play today, but here he is. Well fine, she’ll punish both of them. Once she gets out of this. Once her skin isn’t flushing with embarrassment and suppressed lust.

“Lady Victoria has failed test the second!” cries the Witchfinder. “On to test the third!”

“Test the third!” yells the crowd. Oh great. She knows what’s coming next; they made sure to explain everything so she’d know exactly what she was consenting to. The minions pull her off the scale and drag her to the center of the stage, the Witchfinder steps up with a knife, and--

There goes the shift she’d paid Amy to sew for her. Gabe is going to pay for a new one. One of the guards tugs at her hair, and Victoria lets him pull her head back to display her body to the audience. They cheer. As well they should; she knows what she looks like. She bets Gabe is rubbing up against Nate at this very moment. She presses her thighs together. That’s more erotic than it needs to be right now.

The Witchfinder runs fingers down Victoria’s chest, cupping one breast in his hand. She shivers, and her nipples harden. It’s the wind, she tells herself, the wind on her damp skin, not who he is, not where he’s touching-- oh. She twists her head to look at him. “Do that again,” she breathes. Up close, he’s only made up to look old. He’s not really more than a few years older than she is. The Witchfinder gives her a little smile and pinches again. Oh. He takes her other nipple in his fingers and twists. She can’t keep from leaning toward him.

“When tortured,” he announces, “the witch does not cry out, but acts the whore! Test the third has been failed! My lords and ladies, we have a witch among us!”

There’s more cheering as the guards drag her offstage. “Hail Lord Satan,” she shrieks. She bets Gabe is cracking the hell up right now. She would be if this were him, or if she weren’t so turned on she wants to jump the Witchfinder.

The backstage people give her a gift card for a one-hour massage for being part of the show. Nice. They move to take her ruined shift, but just then Gabe pushes his way in. “No, no, leave it,” he orders. “She’s mine.”

Normally, Victoria would bristle and slap at him for that, but after that whole exhibition, she’s aroused as hell. She lets him give her dress to Nate to carry, and she follows Gabe out, clutching the edges of her shift together for decency’s sake. She can still feel where the Witchfinder pinched her.

Gabe has clearly been studying the map, because he leads the two of them unerringly past the inn to the stables behind it. There’s a stablehand there. Gabe hands him a twenty. “We want to use the loft,” he says. “Give us half an hour, okay? Don’t let anyone up there.”

The stablehand pockets the money. “Have fun, you kids.” He grins at the flush on Victoria’s cheeks.

-o-

Gabe leads them up there. The ceiling is low, so he can’t do it with the flourish he intended, but he takes off his cape and lays it out on the hay. Victoria is trembling, but he’s pretty sure it’s not from cold.

It’s time to be firm. Gabe knows that’s what works for her now. He takes the edges of her shift and rips them apart, all the way down to the hem. The shift falls off her, and he takes her by the back of the neck and pushes her down onto the makeshift bed. “Nate,” he commands. “Get naked.”

While Nate is undressing, Gabe brushes Victoria’s hair off her cheek. “Do you know what I’m going to do, witch?” She shakes her head. “I’m going to let your dog-boy fuck you.”

She moans.

“He’s going to fuck you like the whore you are,” Gabe presses relentlessly, “and you’re going to suck my cock. Satan’s cumslut.” That might be a bit much, but Gabe is nothing if not over the top. Right now, Victoria doesn’t seem to mind.

“Spread your legs, bitch,” says Gabe. Victoria does, getting her knees under her so Nate can have access. “Nate, fuck this slut till she screams.”

Gabe orchestrates the entire scene like a master conductor. He keeps Nate under specific orders, so Nate won’t feel like he’s doing this of his own volition. He whispers to Victoria, describing what Nate’s doing to her, what she looks like all spread open and shuddering. He calls her names, knowing what that does to her when she’s in this mood. He gives her his cock, and when she screams with her mouth full, he throws his head back and groans through his teeth. He doesn’t warn her when he’s about to come. She chokes and lets it spill out of her mouth. Gabe pulls her up and kisses her, tasting himself on her tongue. Behind her, Nate pants in time with his movement, “Please, please, please...”

“Come,” Gabe orders. With another two thrusts, Nate buries himself deep inside Victoria and shudders, nearly crying. Under him, Victoria moans in protest. Gabe twists one of her nipples again and reaches down to her clit. It only takes thirty seconds for her to scream again. Gabe covers her mouth with his other hand.

The three of them collapse onto Gabe’s cloak. It’s pretty much ruined. He doesn’t care. “God,” begins Victoria, and falls silent.

“Yes?” answers Gabe.

She smacks him on the ass, but there’s no force behind it. “You’re such an assface,” she says. “I told you that was a fantasy. And a Witchfinder? Really? Did you plan this whole thing?”

“I may have made a few calls,” says Gabe lazily. “Did you really think I was that much of a dick that I’d deliberately ruin your day? I’m offended. Nate, punish her.”

“No,” says Nate, curled up at Victoria’s feet. “I’m done today. Scene’s over, so don’t even.”

“Even my dog is against me,” sighs Gabe. “See what I sacrifice for you?”

She smacks his ass again. “Don’t think you’re done with this. I’m still going to hurt you when we get home. Once I can stand up again.”

Gabe grins. “I’m counting on it, baby.”


	12. I Get Knocked Down...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Other people see a problem in what he's doing. Other people can fuck off.

It’s not that it ends too quickly, because honestly Frank’s not sure he could have taken much more of a beating. It’s more that he doesn’t have a chance to drift back into reality at his own pace. Last time he floated through the afternoon, aided by the lax attitude of the adults around him. Contrary to Frank’s dire predictions, Schechter just spoke to them for a few minutes before handing them off to Mr Howard, who talked for about a minute before Mr Schechter sent them back to fifth period.

While it had been nice to not be in a shitstorm of trouble, it had prepared Frank in no way for how shit’s going down this time. Not that he would have not done it had he known, because fuck that. But as far as Frank can tell his dire predictions were right, and last time was just a fluke.

Principal Schechter meets them in the cafeteria. They're both being held by a staff member, arms pinned in a way that doesn't allow for struggling. It's not exactly a turn off. Schechter apparently holds a grudge about the way they didn’t talk last time; he doesn’t even bother to ask what the issue was, just asks the students still standing in a semi-circle around them what happened. They tell him about Frank calling Matt out on his band shirt, that they plagiarise their songs and the lead singer is a whore. Not that Schechter knows it, but it’s essentially a play by play of last week. Frank made a comment, Matt told him to fuck off and punched him in the shoulder, Frank shoved him. This week differs slightly in that last week Matt shoved him back and told him to fuck off again, and this week Matt skipped the preliminaries and just took a swing.

Like last week, they’re brought into the office and ordered to sit. The chairs are poorly padded vinyl and tiny metal legs, it would be fair to say they could be used in a torture scene. Unlike last week Schechter is on the phone to their parents in seconds, back of the spinny chair turned to face them. Frank obviously can’t hear both sides of the discussion, simple eavesdropping proves that their presence is being requested.

While they wait, he lectures them on the seriousness of violence or overtly sexual behaviour in a place of learning. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard a hundred times. Bullies that get caught are charged with assault, it happened to Chad Kroeger last year. _No scening at school_ was just about the first lesson they learned in sex ed. Frank wants to yawn. Okay, no, Frank wants to flee the office and jerk off in the nearest bathroom. But he can’t do that, and he can’t yawn either; Schechter would probably pop a blood vessel.

The Cortezs arrive first to take Matt away. Matt doesn’t seem overly pleased to see them, but they don’t start shouting immediately so as far as Frank’s considering he’s getting off easy. When his grandpa finally arrives at school Frank doesn’t get the same kindness. Nor does it stop, it’s literally an entire afternoon of lecturing. Grandpa doesn’t let him out of his sight until his father gets home, and then it’s a tag team of _have some respect_ and _you’re wasting your life_ and _this wouldn’t have happened if you had a dom_. If the only way to get out was to shoot himself in the face, Frank would.

He’s not an idiot. He knows that going upstairs to use his closet is out of the question. As soon as they hear a single thump Dad will run up the stairs. In the mood he’s in it wouldn’t surprise Frank if he detached the doors. Even straight masturbation probably won’t happen. Whenever he gets in trouble he’s under a strict open bedroom door policy, and there is a difference between getting off because your peers are watching and judging, and having your grandpa walk past as you’re coming into a Kleenex.

Maybe another person would take today’s proceedings as a lesson. Frank Iero is Frank motherfuckin’ Iero though, and today’s bullshit only means one thing. The next time he provokes Matt he needs to do it in a way that’ll give him time to enjoy it.

The next day he waits until lunch, and until Matt goes outside for a smoke. Frank’s not a stalker, but he smelled the smoke on him yesterday, and when he stands his hand is curled around a square bulge in his pocket. There are only so many things it could be. Frank says something to Conrad about needing to take a shit in case someone notices he’s gone, then follows him.

This time he doesn’t even bother to say anything offensive, just sneaks behind him and shoves the heel of his palm into the back of Matt’s skull. Matt’s cigarette falls and sputters out. Frank only has a second to mourn the waste before Matt’s shoving him against the brick wall. The jagged clay bites into his scalp and Frank’s breath catches in his lungs before he punches Matt in the side. With Matt’s forearm against his throat it’s hard to see where he’s aiming, but judging by the grunt it lands somewhere decent.

There’s only a small number of people on the lawn. It’s October, it’s starting to get a bit cold for sitting on the grass to eat lunch or playing catch. None the less, when the first one notices and shouts ‘fiiiiiiight!’ it takes only seconds to get an audience. They get close enough for a good view, though far enough that no one gets accidentally hit. Between the witnesses and the way his nose is getting crushed against Matt’s chest in the sudden headlock, Frank’s counting the moments until he creams his jeans. God bless jocks and stoners that don’t see the need to fetch a teacher.

Of course all good things have to come to an end. He’s grabbing a spare pair of jeans from Mikey’s locker -they’ll be too long, and tight on the thighs, but he doesn’t have his own, and comestains are a dress code violation- when a hand comes down on his shoulder. Frank drives back his elbow automatically, but it’s caught before it hits flesh.

“Mr Iero, kindly refrain from trying to brawl with me.” Oh fuck, that’s Schechter’s voice. That’s not good at all.

*

“We wanna talk to you about your fighting.”

Frank scowls and crosses his arms tight over his chest. It hurts his ribs, a soothing counterpoint to everyone apparently ganging up on him to give him shit. He and Pete and Sisky haven’t even sat down yet. You’d think a fucking intervention could wait until he was on the couch.

“You need to stop,” Carden says bluntly.

“Why the fuck are you even here? You’re scared shitless of Ryan’s dad.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, witty argument. That’s the most eloquent thing I’ve heard in a while.”

Carden opens his mouth but Tom kicks him. The action is mirrored by Ray, who tells him in a low tone to focus. He is; on the bruise Ray unwittingly kicked, and the determined look on Matt’s face as he stood over Frank giving it.

“Carden’s right though, you need to stop fighting.”

“You realise how fucking offensive it is to tell someone they can’t enjoy their slant, right? You don’t see me giving Nate shit for wanting to be someone’s puppy, or Sisky for servicing a fucking _sub_ , or Mikey for letting someone different do whatever they want to do each freakin’ night. And I was the only one that didn’t give Bob shit for dropping out to be housebound for Maureen. And you-”

Mike clamps his hand over his mouth to stop the rant, but Frank is not Gerard Way. Even in a headlock he can still stomp on Mike’s feet until he lets go. “Just fucking listen Iero. Shut up and listen. No one gives a shit if your slant is being publicly taken down. Half of us share some aspect or another. But we don’t do it at school! In the last week you’ve been in the office three times. You’re going to get suspended.”

Mikey speaks for the first time. “If you want rough and public I know a few people.”

Normally Frank would enjoy the sudden expression on Gerard’s face. Not now though, not when no one is listening to him. Some of these guys have been his friends for a decade, they should at least try to understand. “I like what I’ve got now!”

“Yeah, and you will until some time next week when you get suspended, and then you’ll come back in a few weeks, head straight for Matt, do it again, and Schechter will fucking expel you.”

“Fuck off, he will not.”

He pushes past Ray and Carden and sits beside Brendon, who is staring wide eyed. Sometimes you can really tell he’s new to the whole getting laid thing. He tosses an arm around Brendon’s shoulder and shoves a wheel into Brendon’s hand, not giving a shit when Spencer glares at him. If Spencer wants to have a go, they’ll have a go. “I’m going to kick your ass. I call Yoshi.”

*

Frank’s been looking for Matt between periods. Unfortunately he doesn’t know where his locker is, and the friends of his that would normally know that shit aren’t going to ‘enable him’. Fucking doucherags.

In the end, Matt finds him. The class bell rings and the hall quickly thins to almost empty, only the few skippers or those with legit spares left to wander to the caf or the library. In a matter of minutes it’s just them. Frank puts up his fists, ready for a few good punches before being crushed into the linoleum. It rained this morning and Jimmy is a lazy fuck, two periods and the floor hasn’t been mopped up yet. He’s wearing a red merch shirt. If he goes down it’ll be noticeable, even if no one watches the fight.

Frank’s expecting a perfunctory insult, some paper thin reason to start. Instead Matt opens his mouth and asks “are you, like, courting me, asshole?”

“Fuck off!”

Matt doesn’t take the easy bait. “Unless you say Rhode Island right now, I'm taking that as a yes.”

Frank doesn’t say anything, just continues to glare, fists ready. Matt smirks and kicks him hard as fuck in his shin. Frank goes to one knee.


	13. Belts Are Not Boring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pedicone relieves Gerard's boredom.

"I'm bored," announces Gerard. Music thumps against the back of his head.

"You're never bored," says Pedicone. His missile takes out two Super Mutants at once. "Work on your ANAA stuff."

"Administration won't let it go further till I get a teacher to sponsor it," says Gerard grumpily. "I asked Mr. Hall, Ms. Archer, and even Mr. Howard. Everyone's too _busy_. I think they're prejudiced. It's bullshit. Jesus, Mikey," he calls out, “turn that fucking down.”

"Do you even know any non-actives?" asks Pedicone, gutting a Raider with his lawnmower blade. "Personally?"

Gerard sighs and throws himself down on the bed. "I would if they'd _tell_ me they were. No one will, even though they know I'd totally accept them. I mean, how could they not know that?"

Privately, Pedicone thinks they're more worried that Gerard will throw them a coming-out party. "Then read. I don't know, dude, come on, I'm leveling up here."

"You could do something to me." Gerard rolls over.

"Fine. Go stand in the corner."

"That doesn't work _every_ time, Pedicone."

Pedicone pauses the game and puts down the controller. He twists around to look at Gerard. "Go stand in the corner," he says deliberately, "until I figure out what I'm going to do to you."

The surprise on Gerard's face is almost funny. "Oh," he says, for once at a loss for words. "Okay then. Should I take off my clothes?"

"Not yet," says Pedicone. He picks up his game again. "Wait, yeah. Take off your shirt and socks. I hate it when you wear socks during sex."

Normally Gerard would snark back, but he's already sinking into subspace, so he skins off his socks and shirt and goes to wait in the corner by the door.

He waits a long time. Pedicone levels up at least twice while Gerard is standing there. Gerard starts tapping his feet and sighing. He has to sigh pretty loud to be heard over the music.

"Quiet while you're in the corner," says Pedicone, focused on the TV. "You know the rules."

"It's no talking while I'm in the corner," Gerard points out. "Not no sound whatsoever."

"Well, now you're talking," Pedicone says. "Take off the rest of your clothes. Your time starts over now."

"There was time?"

"There was. Now you've restarted the clock. Get your clothes off and this time keep your mouth shut." Pedicone sounds low and rough, sexy rather than mean. Gerard obeys. He stays quiet, even though it seems like forever that Pedicone's going to play. He focuses on submitting, on waiting until his dom chooses to do something. Deep breaths, in and out with the beat, and he's drifting down into subspace again, that place where his mind relaxes and lets go, where he’s not doing anything but anticipating Pedicone’s actions. It’s quiet there, and when Pedicone comes up behind him and puts his hands on Gerard’s hips, the only sound Gee makes is a soft hum as he leans back into Pedicone’s arms.

“Know what I’mma do to you?” Pedicone whispers in Gerard’s ear.

Gerard shakes his head.

“I’m gonna bend you over the bed.” Pedicone’s tongue flicks into Gerard’s ear. “I’m gonna take off my belt, and I’m gonna whip you with it until you come all over the sheets.” Gerard moans. Pedicone shakes him. “Hush up. Then you’re gonna clean it up with your tongue, all of it, hear me?”

Gerard whines, nods. Yes, please, yes, all of that, everything. Pedicone draws away from him. “Bed,” he orders.

Gerard moves to the bed and bends over the side, arching his back so his ass is up. Pedicone gives it a slap. “Slut,” he says affectionately. Gerard hears his belt unbuckle, hears the whoosh as it’s pulled through the loops, and shivers.

The snap cuts through the thump of the bass from Mikey’s stereo. Gerard jumps at the first few blows, before he settles into the rhythm of the whipping. It’s not painful really; it flushes him, warms him, makes his body tingle and his muscles relax. His mind sinks further down into pure sensation.

As the strength of Pedicone’s blows increases, Gerard begins to moan. It’s a sound somewhere between pain and sex. Mikey’s music jumps in volume. Gerard begins to giggle. “No laughing,” says Pedicone, but he doesn’t sound mad. It makes Gerard giggle harder.

 

“Laughing,” says Pedicone, “is not sexy.” He whaps the belt hard against Gerard’s thighs. It’s surprising and painful, and makes his balls draw up tight against his body. He moans again. “That’s better,” says Pedicone.

“I’m sorry,” Gerard pants. He’s not, really. “Please don’t do that again.” Of course, Pedicone does. Gerard knew he would if he was given the right encouragement. The belt thwacks against his thighs, his ass again, back to his thighs, turning him red from below his lower back to just above his knees. It’s deliriously arousing. Gerard’s dick has long strings leaking from it; he knows how he’ll be cleaning it up, and that makes him even harder. He thrusts forward to find relief, but there’s nothing but air, nothing to rub up against.

“I can’t,” he groans. “I know what you said, but I can’t, if-- ow, ow, fuck, ow-- can I touch myself? Please?”

“No,” says Pedicone, never breaking rhythm. Gerard waits for a qualifier, a _not unless_ or _only if_ , but there’s nothing, just No. He whines and thrusts against the air again. The belt never stops.

“I’ll suck your cock,” Gerard begs. “I’ll do it really well, just the way you like it, I’ll go down till I gag and I’ll keep-- ow, _fuck_ \-- I’ll keep going, I don’t need to breathe, _please_ \--”

“No,” Pedicone says again. “No touching.” The belt almost catches Gerard across the balls, and Gerard squeaks and presses his thighs together. “Hey.” Pedicone stops.

Gerard spreads his legs back open. Stopping is the last thing he wants. “I’m sorry,” he gasps. “Sorry, didn’t mean to, sorry, please don’t stop.”

There’s a pause, then the belt resumes its rhythm. “If I have to stop again,” Pedicone warns, “you’re going back in the corner, and you’re not coming for the rest of the week.”

“Ow, ow, you won’t,” Gerard says. “I swear.”

It’s getting more painful; the burn is growing, and though Gerard knows he can take a lot more, he is so turned on that his eyes are crossed. If he doesn’t get to come soon, his dick might just give up and drop off. He talks to distract himself. “God, goddamn, it’s good, it feels so good, please, please, please let me come.” Oh. Well, that was no distraction. Gerard’s head sags between his arms. “Please!”

“Stay--” Pedicone grunts as he brings the belt down hard-- “quiet.” Gerard almost wails. He’s not sure he can. He talks. It’s who he is, and pain and sex aren’t enough to diminish his words. But orders are, if he takes them seriously. He bites down on his lips and concentrates on the wrinkles his fists make in the sheets. Even when Pedicone begins to breathe heavily from the effort, Gerard manages to keep his sounds confined to a thin keening through his nose.

Finally, “Good boy,” says Pedicone, “you’re being good for me now, aren’t you?” Gerard, mindful of his instructions, nods his head vigorously. His ass and thighs burn like fire. The belt slows, but each whack slaps tenderized skin, and Gerard has to bite down on his yells. Oh God, he wants to come. He can’t even beg for it.

“If you can stay good like this for the next twenty,” Pedicone continues, “I’ll let you rub against the bed. You want to come like that, don’t you?” Gerard nods again. Please, please, please...

Pedicone counts each blow, and each one is hard, jarring Gerard’s entire body. When he’s finished, Pedicone places a hand on his lower back and presses him down onto the bed, a place Gerard’s only happy to go. As soon as his dick touches the sheets, he begins to thrust. The stinging pain and the long buildup of arousal combine, and it doesn’t take him long till he gives a guttural groan and comes between his belly and the sheets. Eyes shut tight, he rubs and shudders until he’s so sensitive he wants to cry.

Pedicone’s hands guide him to his knees and press his head to the bed. Obediently, Gerard sticks out his tongue to lick up what he’s left, but it’s not long before Pedicone lifts his head up and pushes him to turn around. Gerard looks up, and Pedicone smiles. “You promised,” he says. Gerard gives him a spaced-out smile. “Yeah,” he replies.

Pedicone undoes his jeans, and Gerard reaches in. He goes down instantly, sucking on Pedicone’s dick like it’s the last cigarette he’ll ever be allowed. A deep breath, and he lets it hit the back of his throat. He gags, like he knew he would, and forces his head further down. Another gag, and it’s in his throat, Pedicone’s _cock_ is in his _throat_ , Pedicone is snarling and swearing with a fist in Gerard’s hair, and he’s so absurdly proud of himself that he wants to cheer. But he lied about one thing; he does need air. He pulls back enough to gasp in a few breaths, then plunges back down. He tries hard, he does, but after the third time gagging, he feels like he might throw up, and that is not sexy in the least.

“Sorry,” he chokes, “no more like that.” The fist in his hair becomes a caress. “It’s okay,” says Pedicone, “just do what you do. It’s okay. You’re a good boy.”

Given approval, Gerard goes to town, sucking and licking from the tip of Pedicone’s dick down to his balls and back up again. Pedicone has more self-control than anyone Gerard knows, but even he has to fail eventually. Gerard is good at this.

When Pedicone’s balls pull up and his breathing becomes erratic, he grabs Gerard’s hair and pulls his head back. He comes that way, spattering against Gerard’s face. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever done to him. Gerard feels _owned_ , the way Nate is, the way he can tell Brendon’s going to be.

Pedicone sits on the bed and pats Gerard’s head. “You are so good.” Gerard glows with the praise. He wonders how red his ass is now. He wonders if he has bruises. He wonders if he’ll be able to sit down tomorrow. Maybe if he’s standing during lunch, people will actually listen when he talks. That would be nice.


	14. N.A. Is More Than OK; It's Orgasmic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bert gets recruited for his weird sex life, then enjoys his weird sex life.

Bert doesn’t pay a lot of attention to his students. To be honest, most suck, so everything he does is grading on a curve. Bs for everyone, unless they sucked really horribly, or were complete jerk offs in class. Those teenagers get a C or fail, depending on how he feels. On the other hand, some are really good artists, and some just make him laugh. Like Pete Wentz in fourth period. Can’t draw worth a damn, but every time he says something Bert ends up laughing. He’ll get an A for effort, or however else Bert can think of to bullshit a reason for the grade. The nice thing about Art is it’s all subjective. Quinn’s got Biology, he has to actually check if the answer is right or wrong when he’s grading.

A prime example of a dicksmack is Chris Porter, second period. Bert knows he took the class because he thought it would be easy, and normally he’d be right. But if Bert was fifteen years younger and not in a position of paid authority he’d punch the little fucker right in the face. Instead he has to make do with D’s for everything. Hopefully the asshole will answer a handful of questions wrong on the art history exam he has to spring on them in January, and Bert can perfectly legitimately fail him.

Normally he talks shit about stuff Bert doesn’t really care about. He’s one of the asshole doms that demean their sub. Bert doesn’t care if someone’s into humiliation, if that’s someone’s slant it’s their slant. No need to fuck with that. But there’s a difference between calling his girlfriend a cocksucking cum gobbler to her face to get her off, and talking about how bad she is at giving head behind her back. Still, if the sub really cared she’d dump Chris and find herself a better guy or girl. They’ve all had years of sex ed class, they can handle their own lives.

Today he’s not so lucky. The little pissant decides to start a conversation with “N.A.s are so fucking weird.”

If he punches the kid in the face he’ll get fired. Probably arrested, because while it can’t be bullying because Chris would be free to punch back, it’s also someone in a sensitive position attacking someone weaker. What he can do is shut him up. Bert makes a show of standing and shrugging. “We’re not that weird.”

Everyone is staring. Bert decides to help them out by taking one of his rare walks around the room. He make a comment about colour use for a few of the shitty drawings, and takes his time actually noticing the details of the good artists’ work. They seem to be a little thrown off by the attention. He’s not exactly known for plumbing the depths of their message, or suggesting a thicker line. The three are the only ones really focused on their art by the time he’s done talking. The rest of the class are still muttering around their tables, the low hum of twenty five students all not wanting to be overheard.

Oh well. He and Quinn are outed now. So what? It’s not like Brian will fire them. The principal likes them. He must, there are about a dozen reasons he could fire Bert with each performance review. And if some parents get into a tizzy, Howard will straighten out their shit. Bert’s not worried about it.

He heads to Quinn’s classroom for a quick kiss at lunch, maybe a quick more than a kiss. It’s not to be, he’s tutoring a few kids that are clearly completely lost in the material. Yet another reason Bert likes his subject better. When his students suck no one expects him to make them better, because they just don’t have the natural talent. When Quinn’s students are fucking stupid, everyone expect him to make them miraculously smarter. Obviously the entire student body knows, the four teens are staring just as much as his class was.

“Outed us, huh?”

“Didn’t know we were trying to stay in.”

Quinn shrugs and shakes his head. Bert goes in for another kiss, then fucks off so Quinn can try to make at least one kid understand that the human heart beats so that blood will flow. He could stay, but he’d be more of a distraction than anything. He doesn’t really give a shit about biology anyway.

The real repercussions of his actions don’t come up until fourth period. One of the capable artists, Gerard Way, puts his backpack down with Pete’s. There are a few other students at the table, but Bert doesn’t really know them unless he takes attendance and looks up instead of noting the _here!_. Gerard’s different. Even if Bert wasn’t watching who Pete talked to in order to be entertained, he would know Gerard. The kid’s good enough that he’ll probably end up going to an art school after graduation. Said kid only takes a second before rushing up to his desk.

“Is it true?” It sounds like a question, but it’s shouted. If Bert was prone to hangovers he’d be in pain.

“You mean the non active thing?” Like Gerard could possibly mean anything else. Bert has no doubt that his and Quinn’s freaky alternative relationship will be the talk of the school for days, at least until some couple does something outrageous in Jimmy’s basement.

“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t have said anything before! I was at the N.A. Pride Parade and I didn’t see you!” Bert gets the mental image of him and Quinn standing on a float rapidly followed by one of them marching with signs. He can’t help the laugh that bubbles out. Gerard continues undeterred. “Oh well. I guess I can forgive past mistakes. The important thing is you’re proud and loud now!”

Bert's not really sure what he’s supposed to say to that. It’s not like he did it to strike a hammer for the non active cause. Not saying anything wasn’t a mistake, it just never came up before. He settles for an eyebrow raise.

Gerard’s not done yet. “So the entire school has oppressed me. They’ve tried to silence me and the N.A. battle! But I’m sure you won’t allow that to continue.”

Bert has no idea what this kid is talking about. It’s time for another eyebrow raise.

“I’m sure you understand the importance of being free! Free to be and think and like what you want!”

Bert’s actually only sure that the only way he’s going to get this kid to shut up is if he agrees with whatever it is that he wants. This is far too much attentiveness for one day already. He ends up agreeing to co-man some N.A. group. He doesn’t know a thing about it, and he sort of tunes out once Gerard starts in on ‘their’ objectives, but he has no doubt the teen will tell him when he has to show up, where.

Finally Gerard fucks off back to the table his friends are sitting at. He’s grinning like he’s scored some really good pot. “Everything is beautiful. I just took one small step towards freedom.”

“The fuck? Are you like Neil Armstrong or something?” Bert snickers at Pete's comment, though Gerard doesn’t seem to like it. Pete Wentz is totally getting an A.

The last two periods go by in a rush. He doesn’t have a class in fifth period, so he takes a nap, and he wakes up halfway through sixth. Nobody says anything about him taking roll call thirty minutes in. He doesn’t want to narc on the skipping kids, but if Stevie McSteve missed the first five periods and is marked as present for his, it looks bad. Accurate account keeping is one of the things that’ll make Brian’s life easier.

He’s putting the stools up -if they aren’t up Jimmy probably won’t move them to mop and there are half a dozen splatters on the floor- when Quinn comes in. Mr Allman has somehow convinced his last period freshmen that they can’t leave the classroom if their chairs are down. He always gets out first.

“Guess what I’m doing after school.”

Quinn’s smirking, he can hear it in his voice. “If you say you took a coaching position I will laugh until I cry.”

“This kid Gerard, you have him?”

“Don’t think so?”

“You’d fucking know if you did. He’s a good artist, but he’s also a do-gooder. He’s starting some N.A. campaign or something, and he needs a teacher to monitor it, make sure it doesn’t get out of control.”

Now he’s flat out laughing. “You’re gonna get the kid arrested. Since when do you care anyway?”

“I care slightly more than any other teacher and that’s enough for this kid.” The real answer is since dickcheeses like Chris Porter exist, but Quinn doesn’t really like it when he gets vendettas against fifteen year olds.

“Wanna go shopping?”

There are kinds of questions that seem innocent or easy to answer, and then have hidden depths of joy or misery. Interview questions are always like that, so are questions about faith. With any luck Bert won’t have to deal with either river of shit any time soon. But shopping has its own hidden meanings too.

“Food, to-do list, or fun shopping?” Food is moderately necessary. There’s always take-out, but pizza places tend to not have ice cream or barbeque chips, which are two of Bert’s favourite food groups. He’ll pass on to-do list shopping. They’ve gotten by three weeks without a broom and he’s pretty sure the last can lack longer. But there are a handful of stores Bert genuinely likes. Dollar stores for example are always bad ass. And-

“Value Village?”

“Fuck yeah.” Used stuff stores are like pirate booty caves, always full of good stuff. He puts up his last chair, grabs his bag and races Quinn to the car.

The loot this time is pretty decent. At least Bert’s is, he doesn’t know what Quinn scored. For everything else they share expenses, food and hydro and internet. They’ve lived in the same room since Mrs Allman was still paying for everything and trying to convince them they should go to every class every day. Bert has no qualms about sharing anything he’s got with Quinn, wouldn’t think about it for a second. But in Value Village it’s every man -and his wallet- for himself.

“What did you get?” In the world of used shit shopping, showing off loot is only second to actually finding it.

“A few amazing ugly ties,” Quinn says as he fishes them out of the white bag. They are spectacularly hideous.

“I could have you model for my classes on why you shouldn’t mix three shades of paint together without looking. When’s your spare, again?”

“I hope I make a freshie’s eyes bleed.”

Bert giggles. Quinn’s weird tie thing makes his whole formal attire thing acceptable. Bert can get away with t-shirts, he’s the art teacher. Only five sets of parents showed up to the last parent-teacher, because no one gives a shit if their child is doing good at drawing. Quinn is a core class though. He has to put on his Mr Allman attitude and wear a button down shirt and fucking slacks.

“Better than that, I got a fur bedspread.”

“Holy shit. Does it reek, or can we use it now?”

Something that no one ever seems to get is that Bert’s not slantless. Well, Gerard would probably know, but he’s not about to pour his heart out to a seventeen year old. Rant at, maybe. But the vast majority don’t seem to get that just like anyone else, there are things he likes to do in bed. He just doesn’t have to do them to Quinn, and Quinn doesn’t have to do them to him. And that doesn’t make them switches either, a conversation -or argument- he’s had a hundred times. Switch means you take turns being the bitch and making someone be your bitch. In their bed, they prefer no bitches.

Bert’s slant is textures. It’s one of the few things that makes him fitting as an art teacher; the thrill he can get from smearing charcoal or building with clay. If a grown ass man can’t enjoy himself while fingerpainting he might as well hang himself. Because Quinn is a perfect boyfriend/best friend/soulmate, he knows how to use this. Quinn is a creative bastard, and Bert loves it.

A ball of fabric whaps him in the face before tumbling to heap around his knees. It’s obviously not real fur, it’s a lurid lime green. But he really wouldn’t want to lie on skinned animals anyway. He raises a corner to his face. It’s got that VV retail smell, but there’s nothing hidden underneath. No pot or cigarette smoke, or dust or mothballs. He shrugs and jams it under one arm before walking to the bedroom. His finds can wait until after the awesome sex.

Bert makes quick work of the normal blankets. They don’t exactly practice hospital corners. That shit stopped the day Bert escaped the repressed hell of his parents for good, just like pretending to believe and hating himself did. Okay, maybe not the last, but Quinn got that mostly under control. It would be better if the fur was a fitted sheet, more likely to actually stay on the bed, but you can’t have everything.

“Fuck me or ride me, I don’t care. But I’m laying on the blanket, man.”

“Great choices, but I’m gonna go with fucking you.” Quinn smirks and starts stripping down. Bert smirks back. It’s a good choice of his own. Quinn likes to be teased, and Bert’s not in the mood for soft lingering touches. He wants fast jerky movements that will scrape him all over the fur.

Clothes in a pile on the carpet, Bert tossess himself onto the bed. It would be fucking heavenly, if he believed. Quinn wastes no time climbing on, watermelon filling the air as he slicks his fingers. He runs two down the inside of Bert’s thigh, Bert shudders and throws his legs open even more. They’ve done this before, gotten a new bottle of lube and just fucking stroked each other with liquid hands. It works for the both of them; feels fucking amazing, especially if Quinn blows on the streaks he makes, and Bert takes his time before he touches anything of importance. But that’s not what this evening is about, and a minute later they’re both in Bert’s ass. He pushes his body forward and the fur bristles against his back. He sighs, and as Quinn starts pumping his fingers he sighs again.

He doesn’t need much prep, thank fuck. When you have sex once a day six days a week your body starts to get used to it. It’s not long before Quinn is grabbing his ankle and resting it against his shoulder so he can push in from a better angle. Bert twists his head as he enters and rubs his face against the bedspread. The fine threads shudder against his sweaty forehead, they want to stick to him.

“Ahhh, fuck,” Bert swears. Quinn’s giving him exactly what he wants. He knows Bert wants fast, Quinn always fucking knows, just like he always knows Quinn. Everyone should always end up not-married with the person they first tested with, it makes life so much fucking simpler and nicer.

“You should jerk me off with a fur mitt.”

He snorts. “I’ll find a fur lined condom too, we can try that next.”

Bert laughs, it comes out stuttered between grunts. Every time Quinn thrusts he pushes him a little further up the bed. The movements are against the grain of the fur, making the strands stick up and rub against his back and legs. He won’t come just from the sensation, but it’s not something he’ll forget soon. Fur bedspread is going on the List.

“You want me to come in you or on you?”

Fuck, like that’s not a direct shot to his cock. “Close?”

“Make a decision or my dick will, Bert.”

“Fuck that’s so fucking hot, _Jesus_.” The day Quinn blowing his load on his chest gets old is the day Bert goes and plays Chicken with a train.

Quinn comes inside him, but doesn’t pull out. It’s better that way, keeps Bert full and fucking needy. The great thing about Quinn -okay one of many great things- is that he always gives a shit about if the other guy is getting his rocks off. Knowing what Bert likes Quinn reaches across the bed for a corner of the blanket. Bert doesn’t realise what he’s doing until it’s already done and the fist shaped curl of fabric is rubbing against his cock. “Jesus fuck!” Three good strokes and Bert’s biting the pillow, completely not caring that there will be a wet spot later.

When it’s done, when he can fucking breathe again, Bert manages “It’s going on the List.”

“Yeah, like I thought it wouldn’t.”

“God bless Value Village.”

“A fucking men.”


	15. Never Had a Friend Like Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon didn't have friends growing up. Spencer plans to change that.

“I’m serious,” says Brendon. “My parents won’t let me hang out with you anymore unless they meet you. They’re kind of... protective.”

“You don’t say,” snorts Spencer. “Is it a Mormon thing?” He turns into Brendon’s neighborhood, a row of houses that all look the same.

“LDS. I dunno, I don’t think so. It’s probably a youngest thing. They still think I’m a kid.” Brendon makes a face. “I’m the only one left at home, so they have nothing better to do than ride my ass. I mean--” He flushes. “You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Spencer says. He’d laugh, but Brendon would take it the wrong way. They pull into Brendon’s driveway. Brendon turns to him.

“You know what to say, right?”

“Brendon, you’ve been coaching me all day. I know what to say.”

“You’re helping me with my girl problems--”

“Brendon, I know. Knock it off.”

“Okay. Sorry.” At least Brendon’s not saying ‘sir’ today. Spencer’s not sure he won’t let it slip in a moment of stress, though.

Brendon lets them in the front door. “I’m home!” he calls. “Mom, I brought Spencer.”

Brendon’s mom comes in from the kitchen. From what Brendon said, Spencer thought she’d be wearing a 1950s dress and pearls, but she looks like an ordinary person in jeans and sweater. “Hi, honey. How was your day?” She goes to kiss him. Brendon ducks away.

“Hi, Mrs. Urie.” Properly coached, Spencer steps forward and holds out his hand. “I’m Spencer Smith.”

She actually shakes it. “Hello, Spencer. It’s nice to meet a friend of Brendon’s. We’ve heard so much about you. You’re staying for dinner, aren’t you? Are you here to work with Brendon on his dominance?”

“ _Mom_. Please don’t say dominance.” Brendon looks as embarrassed as Spencer’s ever seen him. “We’re gonna go to my room and do homework, okay?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Bren?” Brendon’s mom gives him a mom look. Brendon looks abashed.

“Sorry. Spencer, can I get you anything to drink or eat or anything?”

It’s a politeness thing, Spencer knows, but after all the warnings about being cool and keeping things quiet, it’s kind of funny for Brendon to be offering to serve him. He coughs. “No, thanks. No. I’m good.”

“Okay, come on, let’s go.” Brendon’s practically dancing from foot to foot. Spencer picks up his backpack, and Brendon dashes up the stairs.

Brendon’s room is a lot cleaner than Spencer’s. There are a couple band posters on the wall-- Arcade Fire, the Killers-- but there’s no gaming console, no TV, no DVD player, no computer. Just a bed, a desk, a dresser and nightstand. There’s a stereo on the desk, at least. Spencer doesn’t know what he’d do if Brendon didn’t even have a stereo.

“So.” Brendon waves a hand. “This is it. Um, what do you want to listen to? I have some CDs, but I broke my iPod and I have to do chores for like two months in order to get a new one. So there’s not a lot of choice, but I have some stuff you’ll probably like. Here, you should pick.” He opens a desk drawer to reveal about a hundred CDs, all neatly alphabetized. “What subject should we start with? How about Western Civ? I think we can knock that out the fastest.”

“What, you actually want to do homework now?” Brendon had told his mom that, sure, but Spencer had at least figured on some makeout time before scrambling to finish essays at the last minute.

Brendon stares at him blankly. “Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?”

“Well, yeah, okay, but not like right now now. I mean. Aren’t I supposed to be helping you with your dominance?” Spencer wiggles his eyebrows at Brendon. Brendon doesn’t seem to get the joke. He just looks uncomfortable and pushes Spencer’s backpack toward him.

“Brendon, jeez.” Spencer puts an arm around him. Brendon stiffens. Spencer’s never felt that before. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” says Brendon. “I’m okay, just-- we’ve really gotta get this done; I have to keep my grades up or I won’t get to go to Ryan’s anymore.” He squirms out of Spencer’s grasp and reaches for his textbook.

“Wait,” says Spencer, the dom note sharp in his voice. Brendon freezes. Spencer turns his face toward his own. “Kiss me first.” His mouth comes down on Brendon’s, tongue forcing entry. Brendon kisses back for one intense second, then pushes Spencer away.

Spencer is stunned. “I’m sorry,” says Brendon hurriedly, “don’t get mad, I just can’t do this here in their house, it’s not right.”

No. Spencer isn’t having it. “What. The. Fuck. All I wanted was a kiss. I mean Jesus, Brendon, is homework all you do when all your friends come over? What, do you read the Bible afterward?”

Brendon’s eyes flick down for a second. “Well, that’s never really come up. You’re the first friend I’ve had over since... well, ever, I think.”

Spencer blinks. “What? No way, you have tons of friends. There’s Pete, and Jon, and Ryan and Gee--”

“Those are your friends,” says Brendon.

 

“Those are your friends,” says Brendon.

“Then what-- wait.” Spencer frowns. “What about your friends from middle school?”

Brendon shrugs. “There are a couple people I see in the halls sometimes. Um, I don’t mean to be disrespectful at all, but could we please not talk about this? I really do want to get my homework done before my dad gets home.”

“Elementary?” Spencer tries.

“Homework,” says Brendon. “And no, not really.” If it weren’t Brendon, Spencer would say he looks angry.

-o-

Spencer can’t imagine his life without friends. He’s not the most popular guy in school, sure, but he’s known the people in his group since they were all in middle school together, and then there’s Ryan, who’s been his best friend for over ten years.

Brendon’s never had that. Brendon’s never had a Ryan in his life, or a Jon or a Mikey or even a Gabe. He sat by himself in the cafeteria, or ate in the library. He went home and did his homework. The loneliness hits Spencer in the gut.

When Spencer was six, Ryan used to come over and play Hot Wheels. Spencer practiced kissing with Mikey when they were twelve. Victoria used to braid his and Ryan’s hair, though Ryan always liked the little bows better than Spencer did.

Brendon missed all of that. Spencer can’t help but picture little Brendon in his room, looking sadly at the walls. God. It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all.

-o-

“Aren’t we going to Ryan’s?” asks Brendon.

“Not today,” says Spencer. “I’m gonna take you home. I’ve got a lot to do.”

“Are you angry with me? About yesterday?”

“What? No. No, not at all. I just have stuff to do.”

Brendon doesn’t say anything. When Spencer glances over at him, Brendon nods, then looks out the window.

Spencer drops Brendon off outside the house and drives away. Luckily it’s only a few miles to Spencer’s house. He parks the car, grabs his bike, and starts back toward Brendon’s.

This could all fail dramatically. Spencer could look like the world’s biggest tool, but it’s not fair; this should never have been how Brendon’s life went, and even if he can’t fix it, he can make it up to him.

Half an hour later, he’s ringing the doorbell. Brendon’s mom answers. She looks surprised. “Spencer, hello. Are you here to see Brendon?” He notices the hopeful lift in her voice, and it’s that more than anything else that tells him he’s doing the right thing.

“Hi, Mrs. Urie. Yes, please.”

“Brendon!” she calls. There’s a moment, then Spencer hears Brendon galumphing down the stairs. “Yeah, what--” he begins, then catches sight of Spencer. “Spence? Is everything okay?”

“Fine, everything’s fine,” Spencer assures him. “Can I just talk to you for a second? Outside?”

Brendon comes out, closing the door behind him. He looks terrified. “Please, not now,” he says in a strangled voice. “Do it tomorrow at school, I’ll be ready tomorrow--”

The pain in Brendon’s eyes is so sharp, Spencer can’t stand it. Talking around it is too hard, so he dives right in. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Spencer Smith. I’m in fourth grade, and I’m eight years old. How old are you?” This is the part where Spencer could look like the world’s biggest idiot. He’s never realized how fucking brave Brendon must be, opening himself up like he has.

It takes a second for Brendon to understand. Spencer can pinpoint the exact moment he gets it, when his eyes widen and a look of joy comes over his face. “I’m eight too,” says Brendon. “When’s your birthday? I bet I’m older than you.”

“September 2.”

“Hah!” Brendon’s face creases in glee. “Mine is April 12! I’m totally older than you!” He punches Spencer in the arm.

“Ow!” says Spencer, and punches back. Brendon stumbles, but grins like the sun has come out.

“Wanna ride bikes?” Spencer asks, indicating his. Brendon actually hops up and down, and scrambles toward the garage. “I have cards in my spokes,” he calls over his shoulder. “They make a really cool sound.”

Spencer’s not surprised to see that Brendon wasn’t lying. If anyone would still put cards in their bike, it’s Brendon. He is surprised to find out how happy that makes him. “I’ll race you to the end of the block!”

“It’s on,” says Brendon. Spencer takes off before Brendon even gets on his bike. “Hey, no fair! Cheater!” Brendon yells. Spencer eases off, though, and Brendon catches up quickly.

“It’s a tie,” shouts Brendon. “Wanna go around the block?”

His enthusiasm is contagious. “Yeah!” Spencer calls back. “Let’s find the storm drain and see if there’s anything cool in there!”

Brendon stands up to pump the pedals of his bike, his butt sticking out. Spencer has to resist the urge to slap it, but you just don’t do that with kids, it’s gross and wrong. Kids can’t consent to sexplay, and even though Brendon’s of age, it would ruin the illusion. This is supposed to be about Brendon having fun, not Spencer’s dick.

They play in the storm drain, then bike around the block a few times, faster and faster until Spencer’s wheezing for air. Brendon has boundless energy, though, and dances around Spencer while he’s trying to catch his breath. “Let’s watch a movie,” he chants, “let’s watch Aladdin, it’s my favorite, come on Spencer, let’s watch a movie!”

At least a movie doesn’t involve moving. Unless you’re Brendon, who has to act out all the parts and sing all the songs, and damn, does he have a hell of a voice. How did this kid have no friends? How did Spencer overlook him for so long?

“You sound really good,” says Spencer when the movie’s over. “I like your singing. Can you sing the Genie song again?”

Brendon grins wide. “Well Ali Baba had them forty thieves, Scheherazadie had a thousand tales, but master, you in luck cause up your sleeves, you got a brand of magic never fails!” He throws himself into all the genie’s moves, ending up on the floor with “You ain’t never had a friend like ME!”

-o-

Brendon has an entire set of G.I. Joes sitting in his closet. Spencer pulls them out and starts picking the ones he wants. “No!” says Brendon. “You can’t take Lady Jay; she’s my favorite. You can have Scarlett.”

“I don’t care,” says Spencer. “My favorite is Snake Eyes, anyway.” He picks up Junkyard. “I bet this would be Nate’s favorite.”

“He should come play too!” Brendon declares. “Maybe next time? Can you bring Nate next time?”

“I’ll ask him,” says Spencer. “Can I be Cobra Commander?”

“Sure,” says Brendon generously, “you can even be Destro too.” He fits a tiny gun into Lady Jay’s hand. “Pew pew pew!”

Spencer pews back. It’s awesome.

-o-

They play until it’s almost dark, until Brendon’s mom calls them both. “Brendon, dinner! Spencer, are you staying?”

Brendon nods frantically. “Stay, Spence, we’re having lasagna, it’ll be awesome!” he says in a loud whisper. But Spencer shakes his head. “Sorry, Mrs. Urie, I have to go home. Mom’s expecting me soon. But thank you.”

Brendon looks disappointed. “Are you going to come back?”

“Yeah,” says Spencer. “Probably not real soon, but I’ll definitely come over again. Just call me when you need me, okay?”

“Okay!” says Brendon, beaming. “Next time we can watch Beauty and the Beast. I can do Lumiere’s song for you. Or we could watch Aladdin again, if you want. I don’t mind.”

“Excellent,” Spencer says. “Come on, walk me out.”

Brendon goes with him, bouncing the whole way. Outside, Spencer puts his hands on Brendon’s shoulders. “Hey, timeout, Bren. When I came over... you were scared I was releasing you, weren’t you?”

The kid goes out of Brendon’s face like a light’s been extinguished. He scuffs his shoe on the ground. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I was. Definitely. I wished I could have been better for you.”

Spencer pulls Brendon into a hug. “No. You’re perfect,” he says in Brendon’s ear. “I think we should call off the test. We’re way past that. What do you think?”

There’s a gulping sigh over Spencer’s shoulder. “I want that,” says Brendon. “Really a lot.”

“Awesome.” Spencer smiles and lets Brendon go. “I gotta go home before it gets dark. See you at school tomorrow, okay?

The little kid peers out of Brendon’s eyes again. “Okay.” He grins. Just before Spencer gets on his bike, Brendon throws his arms around him. “Are we friends, Spencer Smith?”

Spencer hugs him back. “You bet. Best friends.”


	16. Someone Call The Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of going to Gerard's meeting, Mikey gets laid.

Mikey heads for Pete’s locker after class. The halls are just beginning to fill, the more impatient doms attaching leashes. Although you’re technically not supposed to on school grounds, a lot of teachers are willing to look past the dress code violation at the end of the day. 

Mikey leans against the metal bank until Sisky stops beside him, Pete a few steps behind him. Sisky says hello, Pete says “Sisky, grab his shit.”

Mikey eyes Sisky and moves his iPod to his pocket before giving him his backpack. He wants Sisky to be happy, but if he topples from carrying three bags Mikey doesn’t want his iPod broken. 

“Any thoughts about going out?” 

Mikey knows Gerard has his first alliance meeting, but Mikey isn’t planning on going. Everyone else will go, or at least enough of their group to make Gerard happy. Mikey loves his brother, but he has to live with him. That means he’ll be asked his opinion on every poster, on every objective. Hell, Mikey can see Gerard both taking and then reading him the minutes from the meeting. There’s no reason to experience it twice. 

“Yeah?” Pete shrugs like it’s not really a question. “Ryan’s.”

“I was thinking Imagine Studios?” Ryan’s is great for at least a few nights a week. But sometimes Mikey wants to get laid, and most of his friends are already coupled up. Besides, he’s been with most of them. Whenever possible, he likes novelty.

“I dunno. That’s not really my thing. There are only so many times you can be a tennis player using equipment improperly.”

“Come on. Use the teacher/student room.”

Pete snorts. “That’s creepy, dude. Mr Norton got fired last week for spanking a student.”

Mikey would explain that that’s the fun of role playing; using the roles to play in ways actual practitioners wouldn’t. Real teachers can’t sexually assault students, and real farmers don’t fuck real animals. Gerard’s the lecturing brother though, and if Pete doesn’t want to then he doesn’t want to.

“At least give me a ride.” He doesn’t really have to ask, he knows Pete will. 

*

Imagine Studios might not be the most favourite of all the places he has a membership to, but it is pretty awesome. Five years ago the owners bought and renovated a hotel, turned it into a club. Each room is a scenario; jail cell, barn, library stacks. Some are double rooms linked by a inner door, like the heaven/hell scenario. If you’re creative, you can get a lot of different experiences.

There’s only one person in the waiting room of the doctor’s office. He’s pretty hot, but there’s no question that he wants to be the patient. From where he’s standing Mikey can’t tell if the cast on his leg is self created, or if he’s into the scene so much he actually self harmed to get that situation. Mikey had thought of being the patient. He still could be, of course. If he got out his iPod he and the stranger could sit in the waiting room until a doctor came to take care of both of his or her patients. But being a patient isn’t a strong need of his, and there’s a shitty reality show he wants to catch later.

“I’m sorry I’m running late. My car- Well, never mind. It’s hardly relevant. Give me a moment?” 

Without waiting for the guy to answer Mikey passes through the thin corridor between the rows of chairs to head for the office. There’s not really a need to talk about this with him. If he doesn’t want Mikey he can say his doctor is actually Doctor Chambers, and if later he doesn’t want to be tied to a weight scale, he can just say so. One of the good things about role playing is it doesn’t take much to get out of a situation. Breaking character is essentially safewording.

There are a few different white jackets hanging on the back of the door. Mikey tries on the first. The arms are far too short, and the back barely stretches from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. It feels like it’s going to rip if he moves at all. Destroyed equipment is factored into membership, as are use of disposables, so it would be okay in that way. It’s just not comfortable, and being uncomfortable will throw him out of his role. He struggles out of it and hangs it back up. The second jacket fits better.

He opens the door and calls out “Erik Lance?”

The guy stands and slowly begins to hobble towards the office door. Apparently Mikey is close enough to what he wants for this to work. Mikey grants Erik a small smile. It’s a doctor’s job to make the patient feel at ease.

“Please sit.” Mikey gestures to the two chairs beside his desk, sinking himself into his own plush swivel chair. Erik chooses instead to sit on the padded table. Mikey doesn’t say anything. If that makes the patient happier there’s no reason to push the issue.

“Forced inactivity often causes issues with other parts of a person’s system. Normally healthy people can find themselves unhealthy at the end of the six weeks.” 

Mikey is totally bullshitting. He doesn’t know anything about casts, he’s never broken a limb and neither has Gee. Frank and Pete have only broken fingers. It doesn’t worry him though. Improv is essentially one hundred percent bullshit and role playing is just improv with orgasms. Just like in improv, it’s all about confidence. If you’re certain you’re funny the audience is likely to laugh. If you pretend you know the facts of lumberjacking or lawyering the other person is more likely to want to continue the scene rather than point out errors.

“I’ve spent so long immobilised, I’d really like to not be sick when I’m finally free of this thing,” he replies, gesturing.

“Then it’s good you’ve come in.”

Mikey stands and strides to the set up in the corner of the room. It’s a set of upper and lower cupboards with a sink attached to the end of the unit. He doesn’t expect Imagine to have all possible gear. There’s a place on Baum that specialises in medical play, and a lot of other niche slants have their own places, but Imagine is more general. Still, knowing what he can use will make the scene run smoother.

In one of the drawers of the cupboard are several sizes of disposable plastic speculums. It gives Mikey an idea, a direction for the play. 

“Is your living area particularly dusty? If you’ve been stationary in a unhygienic residence, your sinuses could be” Mikey barely prevents screwed from leaving his lips “impaired.”

“It’s kinda hard to dust when you’re on crutches.”

“I understand. I’m just going to take a look.” 

He picks up one of the smallest pieces of white plastic and rips open the cellophane covering. He’s never had much of a chance to look at them, being on the receiving end. It’s like a pair of pliers, with a tiny traffic cone on the end. Mikey slides the tip into his nasal cavity and lightly squeezes the handles. The tip opens inside Erik, and his breath stutters. On the right track, then. 

He repeats the procedure with the other nostril then pulls the instrument away and tosses it in the medical waste bin. He takes a moment to tell Erik he’s all clear, a sort of relieved smile meeting the statement. Mikey gives him the smallest one back. Clear sinuses are good, but they’re hardly done.

“Have you been having regular bowel movements Erik?”

“Um. Yeah?”

Mikey frowns. “It’s really important you be honest with me.”

“Not as much as before?” He hastens to add, “but I’m probably not eating as much or something.

“We’ll discus your lack of appetite in a moment. But first, if you could take off your pants and underwear? You can leave your shirt on.”

Mikey doesn’t watch as the patient strips. It would hardly be professional. When he turns around again Erik is already laying on the padded table. “I’ll need you to spread your legs. It’s very important you not move. If you feel this is going to be an issue I can restrain you.”

Erik shakes his head. “No doctor, I can handle it.”

The lubricant is medical grade. Or at least Mikey assumes it is. It’s not in a neon capped bottle that smells like fruit anyway. He pulls out a pair of gloves from the cardboard box of five hundred sitting beside the sink, then unscrews the lid. Mikey’s not used to doing this with gloves on; it’s harder to tell if he has enough when he can’t feel it slicking his fingers. But that’s sort of the point. He doesn’t want to get used to anything sexual. He lines his fingers up index and middle and pushes in. 

The lack of covering shows him the patient is hard, face blushing pink. Mikey looks on him kindly. “I assure you, it’s a normal response. It doesn’t mean anything.”

After a minute of stretching, Mikey feels confident that it’s safe to press the edge of the speculum against Erik, then push in. Erik’s biting his lip, so Mikey puts his hand on his stomach lightly as reassurance. He slowly turns the screw that opens the blades, not stopping until they’re at their widest. Mikey’s not great at estimating, but he’d say it’s probably nearly three inches. Mikey knows it from the other side, the brilliance of a stretch like that. Maybe he’ll come back in a week or two and try again for being the patient.

Against Mikey’s instruction Erik starts to move, bucking up into the air. He mutters “oh God, oh God,” and shoots his load like a fucking geyser. Mikey smiles. It’s a case well managed.


	17. Do We Not Laugh?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of going to Gerard's meeting, Gabe meets up with a friend.

Gabe spends the vast majority of his time with Victoria and Nate. Of that time, at least eighty percent is at Ryan’s. Nate’s mom and dad don’t quite get Nate having two doms, Victoria lives in an apartment with her parents, and Gabe’s moms are nosy as fuck. They honestly get more space to be themselves in a living room with ten to fifteen others. For the most part it doesn’t even occur to him to go hang out with Rob, or see how Sarahlynn is doing. He’s got his crew of two, and other great friends.

On the nights that he is home alone, he’s still not alone. He’s got D-tales. It took Gabe a good three months to get his real name; William Beckett, and a few weeks after that to put online awesome William Beckett with the kid that’s almost always quiet in his math and gym classes. He knows it is the same guy though, because just after he put it together he approached him. During Mr Norton’s five minute warm up jog Gabe ran beside him and restarted the previous night’s ‘who’s funnier, Jimmy Fallon or Craig Ferguson’ debate. As they stopped the barrage of Youtube links only because it was three am not because a conclusion was drawn, it was still lively. Now they have less time to talk because Mr Rollins is their new gym teacher. Simply put, he's a monster. He’s like Mr Hall, the dom that wants to dominate all other doms. It’s like what he and Victoria have, except no sex, more running and possible detention.

These days they get most of their face to face interaction in math. Gabe’s invited William to their table abut a thousand times, but William always says no and eats on the staircase by himself. One day Gabe’s gonna get frustrated and bring half the guys with him to the staircase and not budge until William says hi. No one will give a shit if he stutters, they all have their speech differences. Tom can’t talk without staring like a creeper, Brendon and Sisky both have the kind of slant where 'sir' pops out every sentence, and Gerard is just physically incapable of shutting the fuck up.

Gabe really isn’t a switch. Others could maybe see it that way, considering he gets off on making sure other people’s pleasure goes according to plan. That’s the essential part of it though; that he has the power to make people enjoy themselves. It’s not a consent play thing, but he sure as hell has the control. Since he’s a natural comfortable dom with two subs -or one and a half, Victoria’s designation is sort of up in the air- Gerard’s alternative sexuality seminar doesn’t hold a lot of interest for him. So for the first time in two weeks, he goes home after school.

Once he's in his bedroom he powers up the computer and signs on. No one’s on so he starts pulling up different forums. It’s maybe twenty minutes later that William logs on and flashes orange at him. Gabe grins but waits until he’s done in the thread to click over. Instead of a ‘hey’, it’s a series of messages.

D-tales: so i got this great movie. i had to buy it on ebay, there weren’t any torrents. you wanna come watch?  
D-tales: or i could upload it. but t would take less time for you to come over.  
D-tales: but if you’d rather watch it with v ad n i get it.  
D-tales: i’m not gonna be offended  
D-tales: just, could you say somthing? 

G.A.B.E.: sorry, afk. 

A white lie, but it sounds better than ‘I saw you flashing but was temporarily more interested in what I was reading’. William would take that sort of thing the wrong way.

D-tales: okay so you wanna watch http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0284850/

Gabe opens the link but types yes as he’s waiting for it to load on his shitty internet connection. It could be a documentary about hairbands and he’d go. Not that William seems like that guy, Gabe’s pretty sure crossdressing isn’t his slant. 

D-tales: great! 19 stella road.

Gabe imagines he can see William smiling, it makes him grin as he clicks to the next tab. The movie is called The Anarchist Cookbook. It sounds like something he can demand the group watch. They can have a showing, and Carden and Conrad can be William’s rebellious new best friends.

The movie’s decent. The pedophilia thing is upsetting though, and it puts a darkness over the Family Gin runs. Gabe mentally switches his target audience after the scene in which Gin releases Johnny Red. Better if Ryan watches it. He likes weird serious indie movies. 

“I think you should show this to my friends,” he says when the credits start to roll. William’s face falls immediately, like someone shot his cat. “Dude, what.” William just frowns. Gabe asks again, “what do you have against my friends?”

It’s met with more silence, so Gabe makes a move. He unfolds from cross-legged and digs the toes of his left foot into William’s thigh. “Whaaaaat?” 

He’s expecting some ‘it’s not your friends it’s me’ bullshit. He’s not expecting William to start giggling like a madman. Gabe likes the sound of it. William seems like he doesn’t laugh much. So he keeps on, because it’s ingrained in him to want to make others enjoy themselves.

The problem is that it works. William is laughing and swearing and flailing, and _hard_. He’s fucking erect, and Gabe absentmindedly wonders if his fingers are going numb from lack of circulation because all William’s blood is either in his flushed face or in his cock. He’s not exactly uninterested himself.

“I will be right back. Don’t start thinking or anything, ‘kay?”

It takes a few tossed open doors to find the bathroom. Once he’s in Gabe locks the door and runs the water for sound interference. He needs to call Nate. He and Victoria can argue it out later, but Nate's the one that needs to be settled in his position. The bastard doesn’t pick up, so Gabe waits until the message and calls again. The third time he calls - in total 10 rings- Nate picks up. Gabe doesn’t waste more time with pleasantries, just starts “so I sort of started cheating. Are you cool with me finishing? A one time thing, promise.”

Nate hesitates, which is why Gabe called him, not Victoria. Finally he answers “one time?” 

“Seriously, I wouldn't do it twice. Wasn’t gonna do it once, this was an accident. But I know this guy, and if I don't finish he'll be totally headfucked and think it's his fault and he's horrible and no one will ever want him and blah blah. And Nate, I can't fucking handle that shit, you know that.”

“Your version of proactive sucks. Fine. Whatever. Victoria's going to give you a black eye though.”

Gabe has no question that Victoria will be unhappy about it. But she’ll be unhappy in a vengeful, orgasm denial sort of way. Gabe can deal with that better than breaking Nate’s heart accidentally. “Bye. Love you, pup.”

“You too.”

He hangs up and pushes the phone back into his pocket before unlocking the door. Gabe has the thirty seconds it takes to walk down the hall to reconsider, but doesn’t. Instead he throws himself onto the couch and nudges William with his foot again. The poor guy jumps like Gabe has a violet wand in his toes.

“Don’t get me wrong, I wanna finish.” He does, and even if he was merely neutral he’s positive it’s what William needs to hear. He’s not a virgin, but he’s not the kind of guy that can handle rejection with a flaming burst of hatred. For William all that shit gets internalised. On the other hand, not being honest about this would do more than hurt William, it would mean he lied to Nate. “There’s one thing you gotta know before you say yes or no to testing this though. It’s not gonna happen again. You’re my friend, but Vee and Nate are my crew. You good with that?”

William raises an eyebrow. It’s like a limb, it’s so fucking elegant. “You’re asking me if I’m okay with you loving your subs? You’re fucking stupid sometimes. Yes, I’m okay with a one time test.”

Gabe smiles and moves sideways. He’s on top of him again, this time more deliberately. Most of his body is a weight to pin William to the brown corduroy cushions of the couch. “I’ll say tree.” Gabe nods. He knew that. They’ve talked abut safe words, the coolness of Brad Pitt’s Ocean to Jake Gyllenhaal’s Darko. For the record Gabe thinks they’re both bullshit. People start having sex in their teens, you wouldn’t have a safe word that references movies from your twenties or thirties.

He doesn’t start to get hard until William does. That’s what this is about for him, watching William shudder and twitch and rut his denim covered cock against his leg. Gabe drinks in William’s cursing like any other dirty talk, even though it’s all William shouting at him. The assholes and bastards and stops are scattered between shrieks of laughter and William panting for breath.

“Stop, you fucking fuck!” 

It’s not the command to stop that has Gabe pausing, he’s said it at least a dozen times already. It’s that William is hyperventilating. There was nothing in their negotiation about what to do if he wasn’t able to breathe. Gabe shifts his weight so William can squirm out for a breather if he wants. Basically he’s yellowing as per the Traffic System. William’s response is to stop twitching from side to side to maintain his place under him. When Gabe doesn’t immediately go back to his ribcage, he grabs his ass and pulls him in. “I said I’d say tree, now come on.” 

It ends the same way Gabe’s scenes always end; orgasms for everyone. Gabe doesn’t begrudge Mike and Gerard or Ryan and Keltie their relationships or slants, but for him it’s not a good time unless everyone gets off. William comes with a breathy moan, Gabe’s is more of a grunt. William leaves to get a new pair of underwear for himself and a cloth for him. While he’s waiting Gabe pulls out his phone and texts Nate **done**.

Gabe knows he won't do it again. Even if he didn't have Nate and Victoria, William is needy in ways he can't handle. William can't turn his need off. Even if he's not talking about it, Gabe can see it. It's not like Nate, who will be Gabe's dog or Victoria's dog or his own. It's not even Pete, who is normally pretty normal, and occasionally needs someone to be around twenty four hours a day for two weeks so he doesn't off himself. William is this low grade ever present _please love me_ , and Gabe can't handle that. Luckily, he knows someone who can. William will get his happy ending, Gabe just has to plan it.


	18. Listen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sisky learns that when Pete gives an order, he expects it to be followed.

When Sisky wakes up, he can tell it’s going to be a bad day. His head feels stuffed full of snot, and he’s dizzy when he gets out of bed. 7 AM is a hell of a time to wake up for school, but he’s used to it.

He showers, hoping that will clear up his sinuses, but it doesn’t, though it does make him feel a little better. He skips breakfast, because he’s just not hungry today, and heads to the garage to grab his bike.

The ride over wears him out, and when Sisky lets himself into the house he goes to the bathroom and blows his nose before going to Pete’s room. It lets him breathe, but not for long.

“Pete. Hey. Time to wake up.” He lays a hand on Pete’s shoulder and shakes him gently. Pete rolls over. Sisky tries again. “Come on. We have to leave in fifteen minutes.”

Pete groans. “Too fucking early. Gimme ten.”

Sisky’s been told repeatedly to ignore whatever Pete says first thing in the morning, so he sighs and shakes Pete one more time. “I’ll drive; you can sleep in the car. But you have to brush your teeth and get dressed.” He knows Pete won’t move for at least another five minutes, so he finds him some clean underwear and a shirt he hasn’t worn more than twice. Sisky really needs to do laundry. He’ll get on that tonight.

He has to stop to cough and blow his nose twice before Pete rolls out of bed. Sisky hands him his clothes and sniffs, trying to get at least one side of his nose clear.

“I hate everything,” grumbles Pete. Sisky nods. He’s heard this a thousand times. He coughs again.

Pete’s hardly at his best first thing in the morning, but he rubs his eyes, squints, and looks at him. “Dude, you sound like shit.”

Sisky coughs again. “Nah, I’ll be okay. Can I take some of your tissues?”

“Sure,” says Pete, and pulls his shirt on. Sisky grabs a handful and starts blowing. His nose sounds like a foghorn, but he’s still unable to clear his head. Dammit. He turns around to find Pete staring at him.

“You’re sick,” says Pete accusingly.

“I’m sorry,” says Sisky. “It’s not really that bad. I’ll be fine.”

Pete shakes his head. “No, dude. You need to be in bed, drinking juice or Gatorade or some shit like that.”

“No I don’t.” Sisky swipes at his nose. “I’m okay.”

Pete checks his phone. “There’s enough time for me to get you home and still get to class. Come on, let’s go.”

“Pete, cut it out, I said I’ll be fine.” Going home means a day without Pete. A day when Pete will be on his own, with no one to carry his bag or stand in line at the caf for him or remind him of his schedule. Sisky isn’t going to let that happen.

But Pete crosses his arms and gets that look. Sisky hasn’t seen the look in a long time. Worried, he takes a step back-- _no, don’t say it don’t say it._ Pete speaks.

I’m very disappointed in you, Adam.”

Sisky bursts into tears.

He wouldn’t normally cry, even when he’s failed. But he really does feel like hell, and he’s only gotten that look twice in the whole time he’s been serving Pete, and he tried so _hard_ today, he really did, and he just wants to do a good job.

Pete doesn’t touch his hair or take his hand or do anything that would let Sisky know he’s not angry. “I don’t like it when you don’t listen; you know that,” says Pete. “And I expect you to take care of yourself. If you don’t, how can you take care of anyone else?”

Sisky cries, mopping at his nose. “I know.” He needs to listen to Pete. If he can serve Pete best by going home and sleeping, he needs to do that. “I’b sorry,” he says, and blows his nose again.

“I’m going to take you home, you’re going to tell your mom that you’re sick and need to stay in bed, and she’ll call the school for you. I’ll call you after school to find out how you’re doing, and I want to hear the truth.”

“Okay,” says Sisky. He follows Pete meekly to the car and gets in the back, so he won’t infect Pete with his germs. Germs. He should have thought of that before he even came over. Pete drives him home, Sisky blowing his nose and wiping his eyes the whole way. He’s still sniffling when he gets out. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

“Just make sure you get to bed,” says Pete, and backs out of the driveway. Sisky coughs and wipes away fresh tears. He’s failed so bad. Pete’s probably not mad, he never gets mad, just gives Sisky the look. Sisky wishes Pete would flog him. It would feel better than guilt.

Mom is making Mother’s and Dad’s lunches when Sisky comes in. “Hey, what’s wrong?” she asks, coming around the table. “You look terrible. Are you sick?”

Sisky nods and blows his nose again. “Pete said I have to go to bed. Can you call school for me?”

“Aw, baby.” Mom feels his forehead. “Yeah, you’re a little warm. Go up to bed while I finish here, and I’ll bring you some orange juice and toast.”

“I don’t want to eat,” mumbles Sisky, but not loud enough for her to hear. He’s let enough people down for one day. He goes to his room, changes from jeans into sweats, and slides under the covers. His head hurts.

When Mom comes up, he’s mostly stopped crying. She makes him sit up, gives him a plate and a glass of juice, then sits at the foot of his bed. “What’s wrong, Adam?”

“I’m sick.” 

She raises an eyebrow. “Beside that.”

Sisky wasn’t going to say anything, he’s too ashamed, but with Mom looking at him in a way so unlike Pete’s look, he crumbles. Tears trickle down his face. “Pete isn’t happy I went over to his house and tried to go to school when I’m sick. I could have made him sick too. I told him I was sorry, but he s-said he’s very dis--” His voice breaks. “Disappointed in me.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Mom squeezes his foot through the blanket. “It’s okay. Don’t worry, he’ll get over it, and things will come back to normal. You listened when he told you to come home, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Eventually. I tried to argue with him, though. He hates that. I just didn’t want him going to school without me.”

“I know you didn’t, honey. You were just trying to do the right thing, huh?”

Sisky nods and blows his nose again. Mom scoots up and hugs him. “Sweetie. Nobody’s perfect. No one can do a hundred percent every time. Everyone knows that, including Pete. Hey, even I mess up sometimes--” she smiles-- “but we work it out and keep going. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

“I hate failing,” Sisky mutters. “It sucks.”

Mom’s mouth twists. “I remember when you were little,” she says, “and you’d spilled your grape juice on the couch. You were only four, but you ran to the kitchen to get a rag and clean it up. You asked me for some Windex-- every cleaning product was Windex to you back then-- and spent half an hour soaking the stain out so we wouldn’t be upset. You always took it so hard. I wish things could be easier for you, babe.”

Sisky takes a drink of his orange juice so he won’t cry again. “He’s going to call after school. I’ll stay in bed all day like he said; maybe then he’ll forgive me.”

Mom gets up, bends over to kiss his forehead. “We always forgive the people we love. Remember that. Now finish your juice and go to sleep. Things will be better when you wake up.”


	19. You Might Find You Get What You Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at how it works in the other group. Alex changes his name, and Jared notices.

“You’re being stupid,” says Cash. “Dumbass.”

“Fuck you,” says Singer mildly. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and tucks it behind his ear. He takes his American History book out of his locker, frowns at it, puts it back.

“Just tell me why. Why the fuck is this guy so important that you’re willing to change your name just because it might make him like you better?” 

“I told you. Alex Marshall belongs to his brother. If I’m Alex too, it’ll be confusing. And I like Singer. I know you said they meant it to be bitchy, but I like it.”

“You’re going to Bio, dumbass.” Cash pulls Singer’s Bio book out of his locker and puts it in his hands. “Hurry up; bell’s gonna ring soon.”

“I like my name,” says Singer, allowing Cash to hustle him down the hall. “And I like him.”

“Then you’re a dumbass,” Cash grumbles.

-o-

Singer sits through Bio (mitosis), through English Lit (Marlowe), and through Art History (modernists) before his favorite class. Jared is in Geometry, and Singer’s seat is two rows behind, one row over. He spends each class staring at Jared, hoping to make him turn around and see. He never does.

Z does, though. She turns around and eyes Singer in a way he really doesn’t like. She’s so _perfect_ , little and blonde and pretty, with this way of looking down and smiling that he knows must twist every dom up into knots. He’s awkward, all bones and hands and hair. No, he’s not pretty like Z, but he wants what she has. He knows she can tell. She gives him a delicate sneer and turns her back.

The next day, Singer makes Ian, Cash and Johnson sit at the table next to the Letos. Cash bitches the whole time-- “I don’t give a damn about this guy, you know that”-- but he sits and eats and talks to Ian and Johnson about guitar tabs. Johnson’s a drummer, but whatever, at least Cash can entertain himself while Singer stares at Jared, willing him to look back.

He doesn’t know what it is. It’s not like he knows Jared, knows they’d have anything in common or that they’d even get along. It’s just that Jared is fucking magnetic. He’s beautiful, like Shannon but with a softer edge, and one look from those electric blue eyes would be enough to send Singer to the floor. If he could get a look. Just one, that’s all he asks. 

Singer, Shannon had called him, the one time either of the Leto brothers had noticed him. Alex had been trying out some new lyrics for the tune Cash wrote, and he’d just hit the high notes when Shannon and Jared walked by. Alex’s head whipped around as he was closing his locker, and he accidentally slammed it on his hand. “Nice going, Singer,” he heard floating back to him. Admittedly, Shannon had sounded more sarcastic than complimentary, but any attention was better than none. They knew he was alive. He took the name immediately, but it was weeks before he could get anyone to use it. Cash still won’t.

Singer has a plan. Hell, he has nine plans. All of them are stupid, and will get him punched, laughed at, or kicked out of school. He drums his fingers on the table and looks down at his notebook, formulating a new one. He’ll get Johnson to use his name in front of Jared, and that’ll catch his attention, and--

As it turns out, Singer’s plan is moot. Because at the moment he looks back up, Shannon nods at him, and Jared turns and looks.

Jared is looking at him.

Jared is _looking at him_.

Singer’s mouth goes dry, and he grips the edge of the table. It’s all he can do to meet Jared’s eyes, until he realizes he probably shouldn’t and lets his gaze slide down to the table. Jared snaps his fingers. Singer stands up, ignoring Cash’s “Motherfucking idiot,” and Johnson’s giggle. 

“Come here,” says Jared. Singer goes to stand in front of Jared. His breath comes shallow. This is his chance.  
“You’re staring at me,” says Jared. “Why are you staring at me?” Kneeling beside him, Z nibbles on a salad.

“I--” Singer’s thoughts fly out of his head. There’s only one left; it sounds stupid even to himself, but it’s all he’s got. “My name is Singer.”

Jared blinks slowly. “And?”

“What do you _want_?” asks Z, but Jared holds up a hand, and she goes silent.

It’s a question he can answer. “To serve you,” he says to Jared. “Please.”

“I have Z,” says Jared. Z preens. “What would you give me that she won’t?”

Singer doesn’t know what he can say to that but “Whatever you want from me.” Sir is unsaid, but hangs in the air between them.

Jared looks at him for a long second. Singer has to fight with himself not to go to his knees. He tucks his hair behind his ears in a familiar, nervous gesture. And then Jared speaks. “Bring your tray over here.”

Singer falls over his own feet in his haste to obey. Ian gives him a thumbs-up, but Johnson smirks at him, and Cash rolls his eyes so hard he can probably see his own skull. Singer doesn’t care. He’s going to eat with Jared. 

He sets his tray down and pulls out a chair, but Jared kicks it back in. “I didn’t say you could sit down,” he says.

“I--” Is Singer supposed to kneel? He will, of course he will, but he doesn’t have a pad with him, and the tile floor is hard, but if that’s what Jared wants... Singer starts to go down. Jared stops him with a look. “I didn’t tell you to kneel.”

“What, um. What do you want me to do?” Singer’s voice shakes. He can’t get this wrong.

“What I tell you to do,” says Jared, and turns his attention back to his food.

Singer stands there, feeling foolish. He can hear Cash snickering behind him, and he longs to step back there and slap him upside the head, but Jared hasn’t told him to. He stares down at his tray. The food looks like crap, and usually is, but Singer still wants to eat. Jared hasn’t told him to. The thought makes his knees weak. He darts his eyes over to Z, who is pointedly ignoring him in favor of lettuce.

Shannon’s three subs are kneeling in a row by his chair, their food on trays in front of them. Laena gives Singer a tiny smile. He doesn’t acknowledge it, worried that Jared (or worse, Shannon) might notice. He’s teetering on the line here, and he wants to come down on the right side.

When the bell rings, Singer doesn’t move. Z gets Jared’s tray, and Annie and Alex clear away the subs’ things while Laena picks up after Shannon. It’s like a synchronized ballet. There doesn’t seem to be room for him. He tries not to feel disappointed. But while they’re cleaning up, Jared pulls a notebook from his backpack and scribbles out a message. Singer wonders if he’ll be left standing here for the next lunch period as well, if he’ll have to miss his classes until Jared releases him. He’s not left wondering for long. Jared rips the page out and slaps it on the table in front of Singer. “You can go,” he says.

Singer picks up the page and his tray, and walks away. His friends are already gone. He dumps the food, puts the tray on top of the trash can, and only then looks at the note.

_Meet us in the quad after class. Bring the following items: one toothbrush, one small bag of rocks, three apples, and a plastic rat._

Well. It looks like Singer will miss his classes after all. He has scavenging to do.

-o-

Singer sneaks off campus and gets the toothbrush and apples from the convenience store down the block. He cuts down the bag and fills it with gravel from behind the store. He sneaks back to the art room, avoiding the hall monitors, to find the plastic rat. Gerard Way is there, and when Singer tells him what he needs, he practically squeals in joy. “What kind of rat?” he asks. “I have a brown one with glasses, a black one with a scythe, and--”

“Whichever. A plastic one,” says Singer. He wants it all to be exactly right. He has no clue why Jared asked for the things he did, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is obeying, down to the last detail. Gerard gives him the brown rat, and Singer puts it in his backpack with everything else. “Thanks, man,” he says, and Gerard gives him a thumbs up and huge grin in return. As he’s walking away, Singer realizes Gerard never even asked what the rat was for.

Singer makes it to Geometry-- thank fuck, because there’s no way he’s missing Geometry today-- and this time when he sits behind Jared and stares at him, he turns around and looks back, raising his eyebrows. Singer nods. Jared turns around, and Singer lets out the breath he’s been holding. 

-o-

The afternoon is sunny and hot. Singer would be roasting if he were wearing anything heavier than a t-shirt and threadbare jeans, but Jared looks as comfortable as ever in his black leather coat and cowboy boots, Z at his feet. He holds out his hand. Singer digs in his backpack for the items, and gives each one to Jared, who looks at it and tosses it into the trash. Singer mentally apologizes to Gerard for the rat.

“You want to serve me,” says Jared. “You know what that means?” 

Singer licks his lips. “I think so.”

“Tell me,” Jared says, folding his arms.

Singer is cautious. Any wrong word could fuck this up. “I’ll follow you,” he says, “I’ll eat when you say to eat, I’ll go where you say to go, I’ll do what you tell me to do. If there’s something I want to do, I’ll ask your permission. I’ll give you control.” He hopes that’s enough.

Jared tilts his head and looks at Singer with those piercing eyes. “Why?”

The answer is obvious. “Because you’re Jared Leto.”

Z’s lips purse together. Jared doesn’t even glance down. “You finished the first task. You have two more to go. Meet us here tomorrow for your next assignment.”

-o-

Jared hadn’t said what time. Just in case, Singer shows up half an hour early for school, and races to the quad in between each class. He spends his free period sitting by the flagpole, looking up at the sound of each step on the sidewalk.

Jared ignores him entirely during lunch, as does Shannon, as do their subs. Ian gives Singer a concerned look, but Singer shakes his head. “It’s okay.” He won’t jinx it by talking about it.

Cash has no such issues. “Son of a bitch is setting him _tasks_ before he’ll say if Alex is allowed to put his dick under the bastard’s foot. Alex, seriously, if you need a dom that bad I’ll find someone for you. Someone reasonable.”

“Keep your voice down,” hisses Singer. “He’ll hear you.”

“I don’t give a--”

“I don’t want someone reasonable. I want him. And if you can’t deal, seriously, fuck off. You’re my best friend and everything, but you don’t get to tell me who I can or can’t be with.”

Cash puts down his pizza slice and gives Singer a look. “Someone has to. You aren’t exactly the most rational-sounding guy in the room.”

“Oh, _God_.” Singer slams his tray on the table and gets up to leave. “You are such a fuckhead, Colligan.”

“Hey wait,” Ian interrupts. “Singer, come on. Sit down. Cash, shut the fuck up. If it’s going to blow up, fine, whatever, but let him fucking try, all right? You can say I told you so when it all goes to hell.”

“When?” Singer gives him a suspicious look, but sits back down.

“If. Whatever. Oh fuck you, just shut up and eat.” Ian scowls and chomps down on his burger.

The day drags by. Jared doesn’t look at Singer in Geometry, either. Singer is starting to worry. At least yesterday he had an assignment. Today he has nothing but yesterday’s order. When the bell rings, Singer is on his feet and out the door before it stops. He flat-out runs, skidding around the corners, in order to be there before Jared arrives. Singer will prove he’s serious, prove his worth in every aspect. He debates kneeling, then decides against it. He wants to, but he’s not Jared’s yet. If he’s successful, he’ll get to do all the kneeling he wants.

Singer waits, shifting nervously from foot to foot, until he sees Z coming around the corner. Jared’s a couple steps behind her, and with him is Shannon, trailed by his harem. Singer stands still. Jared comes up to him, only a few inches away, and says deliberately, “Strip.”

It’s not allowed. They both know it’s not allowed. There’s no scening on campus, and definitely no nudity. Shannon was sent home last year for leading in a shirtless sub on a leash. Schechter could suspend Singer for this, maybe Jared too. All of this flashes through Singer’s mind as he pulls off his t-shirt, tossing it to the side. He yanks off his shoes, hops on one foot to keep his balance as he pulls off his socks. Undoing his jeans come next, and he’s already thinking about his underwear, his erection, wondering if Jared will stop him, knowing he can’t hesitate or it’s all over. Suspension is a small price to pay. Maybe he’ll just get detention for a month. He can deal with that. Off come his jeans, and without delay he hooks his thumbs into his boxers and sends them down as well.

There’s a crowd now, all eyes on Singer and Jared, and he’s naked, oh God, naked and hard in front of fucking _everyone_. Half the crowd cheers; the other half is either laughing their asses off or shocked beyond belief. Singer blushes so hard it feels like his entire body is about to burst into flame. He stands up straight, facing Jared but not looking in his eyes, waiting for his next instruction.

Jared lets him stand there for a moment that seems like an hour. “Put your clothes back on,” he says finally. Singer does, thankfully before a teacher gets there, and stands before Jared again. Jared just looks at him. And looks. Singer can hardly keep from screaming in suspense. Is this enough? What is?

“What’s your slant?” asks Jared.

Singer has to swallow a couple times before he can respond. “Obedience,” he says. He’d have thought that was obvious.  
Jared nods slowly. “Meet us here tomorrow,” he says. He and his entourage turn and go, leaving Singer standing there alone, embarrassed half to death, and unashamedly relieved.

-o-

“What do you think number three is going to be?” asks Ian.

Singer shakes his head to flip his hair out of his eyes. “I have no idea. I’m not sure what can be harder than yesterday.”  
Cash snickers. Singer punches him in the arm. “Shut up.”

“Maybe he’ll make you go naked to Schechter’s office and beg for detention,” says Johnson. “Since you lucked out yesterday.”

Singer shrugs. “I would. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

“It would for me,” says Ian.

“You’re a dom,” says Cash dismissively. “No one will ever tell you to do that.”

-o-

Singer stands by the flagpole, surrounded by students who want to see what’s going to happen next. It’s the last time, and if he succeeds, he’s gotten everything he wants. The thought of kneeling in front of Jared makes him dizzy. He clasps his hands behind his back and waits.

Jared leads the group out, walking as if he expected everyone to make way for him. They do. He stops in front of Singer and takes off his sunglasses. Singer meets his gaze, then lowers his eyes. It’s not out of submission this time. Jared looks hungry.

“Today,” says Jared, “you’ll follow us.” He walks past Singer, toward the parking lot. Singer waits for Shannon to pass, for all the other subs, then drops into line. A few others follow, anxious not to miss the show.

Singer beats down apprehension when they lead him through the parking lot and across the street to the diner on the other side. They’re off campus. Anything can happen. They go through the diner, where Jared nods at the manager, who nods in return, and they go out the back, by the garbage bins and the grease recycler. What’s left of the audience, trailing through the diner, has grown quiet. Jared’s group takes up position behind him, and Singer’s left standing alone in the middle of the circle.

Jared steps forward. “Strip,” he says, and it’s not as difficult this time, not without the fear of authority coming down on them. Here, Jared’s the only authority, and if he tells Singer to take off his clothes, well. He will. When he’s naked, cock hard, Jared nods.

“Today,” he says, “you’re going to kneel to me, and beg me to shave your head.”

Singer blanches. 

Sure, it gets in the way; sure, he’s constantly flipping it out of his eyes, but it’s _his hair_. He’s been growing it out for the past year, and he really likes the way it looks. He likes the way it makes him feel like a rock star, which kind of seems dumb, but he does. He’s going to look like a fucking tool with his head shaved, like a skinhead or some military clone. But there’s Jared, right in front of him, and between the two, it’s not a hard decision to make.

Singer kneels, his mouth dry, and tucks his hair behind his ears one last time, aching over its loss. “Please,” he says meekly, “will you shave my head?”

Jared lifts an eyebrow. “That’s begging?”

Singer doesn’t know what to do. He can’t call him “sir,” because that’s reserved for actual subs, people in relationships with their doms. He’s not, yet. Everything has to be correct.

Well, he can’t use “sir,” but he can do other things. He bows his head and bends forward until his forehead touches Jared’s boots. “Please,” he says, loudly enough for his voice to carry. “I am begging you to cut my hair and shave my head. Please.”

“No,” says Jared. Singer looks up. Jared shakes his head. “If you’re not going to do it correctly, you’re not worth my time. Last chance.”

The group mutters. Singer’s desperate. His erection has flagged. He can’t think of what else to do, not with everyone staring at him. Cash’s mockery rings through his head. He’s losing his chance, everything he’s longed for and prayed for and worked for, and the Cash in his mind won’t shut up, yelling _it’s an expression, you dumbfuck, just a figure of speech, you’re not supposed to actually_ do _it_ ,and he--

Leans forward. “May I touch you?” he asks. Jared shifts his weight, like he already knows what Singer plans to do. Singer spreads his knees apart, wraps his hands around Jared’s ankle, and guides the boot to his crotch. He bows his head, takes a deep breath. “Please take my hair. Take whatever you want. Cut it off, shave it off-- it’s yours. Even if you decide I’m not. Please.”

He looks up, and Jared’s eyes pierce him. It seems forever before Jared takes his boot off Singer’s dick, gives a slow nod, and says “Turn around.”

Singer scrambles to obey. There’s a second where nothing happens, and his heart drops, then he hears the snick of scissors opening. Relief crashes into him so hard it brings tears to his eyes. Hair can always grow back, if Jared lets it. And even if he doesn’t, even if he keeps Singer bald forever, it’s worth it.

The scissors sound loud behind him. Hair tumbles past his shoulders into his lap, down his back. It tickles. “Oh my Goooood,” a girl says. He keeps his eyes on the ground, his head bent. When Jared grasps him by the chin, he lets him turn his head. The scissors are even louder next to his ear. Hair tickles it, and he shivers. The hand on his chin tightens. “Don’t move,” says Jared. Singer stills. It’s gone now, going, going, gone. He can only imagine what he looks like. He refuses to let it matter.

His head feels oddly light. Jared runs a hand over what's left of his hair, and Singer can’t help leaning into it. Jared lets him for a moment, before he pushes him away. “Shan?” he asks. 

“Go ahead,” says Shannon.

“Alex,” says Jared, “front and center.” Singer jerks for a second, but Jared’s hand closes on his shoulder and he settles back onto his heels. Not him. His name is Singer.

Alex comes around him and kneels. Jared hands him a case, and Alex opens it. He takes out a thick red leather strap with a handle at the end, and hooks it onto the case. He reaches in again and pulls out something Singer can’t quite see. There’s a muted whisper. Alex unfolds it, and the blade gleams in the afternoon sun.

Singer swallows. He’d hoped for clippers. Looks like he’s doomed to disappointment.

“Z,” says Jared. “Water.”

A moment later, Singer feels a sponge on his head, water trickling down his face and neck. He holds still as Z wets his head down, as Alex strops the razor. It seems like hardly any time at all before Annie’s massaging oil into his head, Alex closes the razor and hands it to Jared, and Jared once again places his hand under Singer’s chin.

“Do not move,” says Jared. “Unless you want me to cut you. But I don’t want to cut you, so don’t move.”

“I won’t,” says Singer. He tenses his entire body as the razor begins to scrape away what’s left of his hair. He wants to shudder, but doesn’t dare. Not with a blade so close to his head, and his orders, and Jared’s express desire not to cut him. Any movement would be disobedience. All of this would be for nothing. 

Jared’s hand moves his head, and though Singer keeps himself still, he luxuriates in the feeling of Jared taking care of him. Paying attention. If Singer obeys, Jared might keep him, and Singer is very, very good at obeying. He doesn’t flinch when the blade nicks his ear, even though Jared hisses “Fuck.” Z’s there, wiping the blood away. He doesn’t jerk when the blade runs over the back of his neck, carving away the tiny hairs there. Even when Jared hands the razor back to Alex to strop it again, Singer doesn’t move.

There’s a sigh as Jared closes the razor. A breeze runs over Singer’s head, and he’s suddenly cold. He’s more naked than he’s ever been before. 

“Stand up,” says Jared, so Singer does. Jared runs a hand over Singer’s smooth head, and this time, Singer can’t restrain his shiver. His scalp is sensitive, and the touch of Jared’s fingers sends his entire body trembling. His nipples are hard. His cock points straight out in front of him. 

“Get dressed,” Jared says. Singer obeys, then takes up the same position with his back to Jared, but Jared grasps his shoulder and turns him around. “Tell me again what you want,” he says.

“I want--” Singer’s voice catches, breaks. “I want to serve you.”

Jared blinks once, slowly. “Is that how you talk to me?”

Singer is confused, until sudden realization breaks over him. “No, sir.”

“I’m going to punish you for that.”

“Yes, sir.” Oh God. Thank you.

“You’ll obey me or Shannon, and when we aren’t around, you’ll obey Z or any of the others. You’re at the bottom of the list; don’t forget that.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“Come on.” And with that, Jared heads back into the diner. Singer waits for Shannon, for Z, for Alex and Annie and Laena, and falls into his place behind. Laena reaches behind her for his hand. She squeezes it. He squeezes back, and runs his hand over his head.


	20. Win Win Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite Matt's initial misgivings, Rose's advice to actually _talk_ to Frank turns out pretty well.

Matt is quickly developing a thing for Frank’s mouth. Watching him at his almost full table of friends eating his lunch is making him hard. The banana is the worst. It’s so cliche it’s pathetic, but it’s still true. There’s just something about the way Frank’s lips stretch. 

It takes Rose elbowing him in the ribs to get him to blink. “If you want to sit with him, just go sit with him. Jesus. It’s not like you’re abandoning us or whatever. We’re big girls and boys, we’d be okay.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not that. I just wouldn’t have pegged myself for an oral slant.” 

Miguel snorts. “That’s because you have the self awareness of a chimpanzee.”

Rose shakes her head. It’s not Miguel’s casual movement, like everything she does it’s theatrical. Rose does everything like she’s on stage in front of a thousand filled seats, and she needs to make sure the guy in row Z seat thirty sees her too. “Chimpanzees are smart, man. Mattie’s like a squirrel.” 

Hey. “Fuck off!” 

“No man,” Miguel starts. “It’s completely true. Didn’t figure yourself for an oral slant? Maybe you didn’t listen to yourself, but we had six months of ‘Laura’s mouth guys, when she puts on lipstick during class it’s like her hand’s on my balls’.”

“Okay but Laura did have a beautiful mouth.”

“That is so completely my point are you fucking retarded?” Rose says all in one breath.

“But at least Laura did put her hand on my balls. With me and Frank I don’t even know.” It’s most definitely the worst part of being Frank’s dom, worse than his crazy ass friends. Contrary to Rose’s inquiry, he’s pretty sure he’s never going to sit at a table with thirty crazy people. He’s better suited to small groups.

“He hasn’t touched your junk?”

“I haven’t touched his either. I just punch him until we both come. Which is great, don’t get me wrong. But people in his gym class have seen more Frank skin than I have.”

Rose sighs.”Talk to me, talk to Mrs Aguilera, talk to Mr Howard, we’ll all tell you the same thing. You need to discuss your slant with your partners.”

Matt picks at the lettuce sticking out the edge of his sandwich. 

“No, seriously, go talk now. Now or I’ll do it for you, and you cannot begin to understand how much of a spectacle I’ll make it.”

Miguel nods. “It’s why I had to release her.” He turns to her. “I’ll always love you, but Jesus, everything was a drama.”

“I’ll always love _you_ , but you have no fuckin’ flair. But see, Matt? We know this because we talked. Seriously Cortez, grow some balls.”

Because he knows Rose, he knows she will do it for him, and it will be a massive show. He puts his sandwich down onto the paper bag so it doesn’t touch the table -who knows how often Jimmy washes them- and stands. Frank looks suddenly eager when he notices him walking over. Matt feels a little like a tease, but caf brawls will not happen until at least two others have scandals to get the principal distracted. Schechter is just about done with their ‘violence and or sexuality’, they need to be careful for a bit.

“I’m not gonna do anything,” he says, stopping across the table from him. Now it’s not just Frank, everyone is watching. Frank’s got a fuckton of friends, it’s sort of off putting. “We just need to talk about some stuff.”

“Uh oh, Frankie’s in trouble.” 

Victoria pulls on Gabe’s hair as Frank turns sideways to grin at him. “Matt and I wouldn’t have fun if we weren’t being bad. Let’s go talk.” 

He stands up enthusiastically. For a second Matt wonders if he’s one of the few Miguel and Rose types that likes talking. Then he realises it’s still a show for Gabe and the rest that are watching. It’s all the more reason to find a private area to do this. Matt wants real answers, not what Frank says to impress people.

Their private place is a random bank of lockers a few hallways away from the cafeteria. While not private in the literal sense, no one that walks by will care enough to stop, and they’ll notice if either of their groups of friends try to spy. For all intents and purposes it’s good enough.

“Okay. So. We, uh, didn’t really test things, we just went for it.”

Frank shrugs. “Picking a fight did the job.”

“Yeah.” It’s hard to argue against that, considering the results of Frank being a douchebag. “But we haven’t talked about other stuff. The stuff that’s not fighting.”

“Like?”

“I dunno. Do you wanna be collared? Or-”

“No. I really don’t, man.”

“Yeah, see, I didn’t think you would, but I didn’t know.”

“Consider it talked about.” Frank smirks, and Matt wants to pull on his hair.

“Okay. So do you just want the fighting thing, or do you want to have sex?” Please, please let him say he wants to have sex. It won’t be a relationship ender if he doesn’t, after all it’s not like there are no orgasms involved. Life would be a lot better if Frank does though.

“I want sex.”

“You sure? Because I don’t want to make you do something you don’t want to do. Unless a thing of yours is being forced.” Matt thinks for a second before adding, “which isn’t necessarily my thing, but it’s not _not_ my thing either. We’d just have to talk about limits first.”

Matt kinda hopes he’s not into it, just so they don’t have to talk. It’s fucking hard to talk like this, screw Rose’s wisdom. 

“Slow down, you’re pulling a Gee.” Matt’s known Frank’s friends long enough to know that he should resent that. But punching Frank in the arm for the comment will only distract them both. And as much as he’d like to give Frank a split lip then make out, the trophy at the end of the discussion marathon might be blowjobs. 

“Seriously, Frank.”

“Fine. As far as consent play goes, you hit me whenever you want, I’ll say Rhode Island if I want you to stop. I’ve never had a rape fantasy, but maybe in the future, I dunno. But yeah, I’m sure I’m fine with adding sex.”

“So how do you think we should do this?”

Frank shrugs. “I don’t have any money for Jimmy, so-”

“I didn’t mean right now. I meant should I reciprocate?”

“You’re asking me if I want a blowjob back? Has anyone ever said no? _Why_ would anyone ever say no?”

Matt shrugs. Rose owes him. "I dunno, if you thought you weren’t worthy of your dom, I guess?”

Frank doesn’t react well to that. “Matt, you’re stronger, you’re faster. You’re not worthier. And if you think I’m going to start bowing any time soon-” Frank cuts himself off, takes a breath, and continues. “You were seriously fucking mistaken if you ever thought I was Alex Marshall.”

Matt doesn’t understand the Montague-Capulet thing between Frank and his friends and the Letos, but that’s not the point. “I really want you to blow me. I’m trying to figure out a way it works for both of our slants.”

“I dunno. Punch me in the face and make me bleed on your cock. Or kick me until I fall to my knees and stick it in my mouth. I dunno. You’ll figure it out.” Well fuck, it looks like they are going to have the consent play conversation. See, that is exactly the problem. Talking always begets more fucking talking.

“Can you come to my house after school?”

“No. I can’t go to the place where I’m going to get laid.” The sarcasm is laid on so thick a half asleep puppy could hear it. Matt kicks out and connects with Frank’s shin for it. It’s a taste of what’s to come.

The afternoon passes by glacially. Every few minutes he thinks of Frank’s lips; split and drooling blood, or pursed around a cigarette, or covered in his spunk. His notes are pretty damn sparse, not that he cares. Failing next week’s pop quiz seems a better option when compared to forcing himself to think about the Renaissance rather than Frank’s mouth.

Finally it’s the end of last class. Matt zips up his binder a few minutes before the clock strikes three thirty so he can leave the room the instant the bell rings. Somehow Frank is already waiting at his locker. It wouldn’t surprise Matt to find out he elbowed his way though the hallways, nudging Doms and other Doms’ subs alike, but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t care, as long as no one starts a fight with Frank without his permission. There’s nothing in his locker he needs, so he just keeps walking towards the doors nearest the student parking lot. Within steps Frank is following at his side.

Matt doesn’t have a problem with the idea of blowing Frank. Some people get hung up on that kind of thing, think blowing someone or getting fucked are the sub roles. Matt doesn’t agree. In his book being a dom is about the attitude, knowing that you’re in charge. It’s that attitude that serves him well in this relationship. Matt’s pretty sure that whenever the intercourse part of sex acts comes up on the docket Frank will demand equal time. If Frank fucks him because Matt tells him to, he’s still the one in charge.

For now though, Matt doesn’t worry about fucking, or reciprocation. Instead he slaps Frank. He falls with the gesture, letting himself crumple without a struggle. He’s down before Matt would expect it of him, but he gets the hurry. He really just wants Frank’s mouth on him. He’s not going to prolong the foreplay if Frank doesn’t need him to. 

“While you’re down there, suck it.”

“Fuck you.”

Matt grabs a hank of hair and holds Frank in place as he rubs the crotch of his jeans against his pretty red cheek. He lets go so he can undo the button and zipper, then shoves his underwear as far down the leg holes as he can but keeps his jeans up. Then he yanks Frank forward and jams him nose first against him. When he pulls back again there are zipper teeth impressions on his cheek. It looks fucking hot. Frank licks his lips and Matt wants to bite them. 

“Are you ready yet?”

“Fuck you.”

He slaps his face again. Not hard enough to fuck up his jaw, or even really redden his cheek. Just enough that it stings. “How about now?”

“Fuck off.”

“Your face is going to get sore before my hand is.”

Frank purses his lips like he’s thinking, then opens them to spit right on Matt’s cock. He almost comes instantly. The rudeness in the gesture is fucking heady.

“I’m gonna ask nicely one more time. Then I’m gonna get nasty. Ready to give up and put your sweet little lips on my dick?”

“Screw you!”

Matt pulls him close again. This time he holds him by his nose instead of his hair. When Frank gasps for air Matt unhooks his fingers from his nostrils and shoves his dick in his mouth. Christ, it’s like he’s been waiting decades for this. 

Rebellious or not, Frank knows what to do with a cock in his mouth. He’ll have to ask him -some other time, not now of course- if it’s okay to call him a whore or a slut. He doesn’t know how many people Frank’s been with, but he’d have to guess hundreds based on perfection of technique. Matt fucks his mouth fast, hard, not giving him a choice about it because he knows he doesn’t want a choice. Frank likes to lose, and Matt wants to be the one against him, winning.

After he comes in Frank’s mouth he takes a step back. It’s up to Frank if he wants to swallow or if he spits it onto his shoes. If it’s the second though Matt might have to shove his head to the ground and make him lick it up. His shoes don’t deserve that treatment.

Frank swallows, even licks his lips. Then, because he’s Frank, he opens his mouth and starts demanding things. “Next time you have to blow me.”

“Next time?”

“Came in my pants.” 

He could ridicule Frank, but there’s no point in it. They’ve both already come. “’Kay. Next time.”


	21. And Don't Forget To Take Deep Breaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon asks for what he wants. Sort of.

Now that they're officially dating, Brendon has finally relaxed around everyone. He's not so jumpy, not so quick to look down and bite his lip like he's afraid he'll be kicked in the ass if he makes a sound. He speaks up. He jokes, with a biting sense of humor that Spencer applauds, as long as it's aimed at other people. Most importantly, he's started asking. Not demanding; he knows better than that, but offering respectful suggestions. "You could..." or "If you wanted..." Spencer does want. Spencer can. Spencer does.

He wishes they had more than lunch together. He'd see about switching Brendon over to his own schedule, but the semester's far enough along that he'd rather not confuse Brendon for no reason other than he wants to. Sometimes he feels like that should be enough, but responsibility tells him it's not. So he makes the most of lunchtime. They sit as close as they can, Spencer's hand always curved around Brendon's arm or clutched in his shirt collar. Scening isn't allowed, but kneeling is, so sometimes when no one at the Mormon table is watching, he has Brendon on his knees, eating from a tray on the floor. Victoria rolls her eyes-- "Really, Spence? _Really?_ \-- but when Brendon gives her his innocent deer look, she laughs and shakes her head. 

It's one of those days that Spencer breaks the rule. Brendon is on a kneeling pad, his left hand curled around Spencer's calf, his head pressed against Spencer's thigh. There's plausible deniability, but not much. Spencer pets Brendon's hair while Gerard is talking about whatever Gerard talks about. Brendon snuggles closer. His hand slides up to Spencer's knee. Spencer looks down in warning, but Brendon looks at him innocently. "Watch it," murmurs Spencer, and Brendon puts his head down, but leaves his hand where it is. Spencer allows it. For now. 

Brendon doesn't say a word, but it's not like Spencer can't feel the hand on his thigh after a few minutes. "No," hisses Spencer. He wishes he meant it. Against the rules, he has to remember that, against the _rules_ , and he's not one of those assholes who think the rules don't apply just because he's a dom. 

"What's going on down there?" asks Gabe, pushing back his chair to look. "Oh dude, watch it. You're gonna get Brendon in big trouble." 

" _Me?_ " Spencer wants to tell Gabe just how not fair that is, that Spencer's hardon is entirely Brendon's fault, but somehow he's having a hard time talking right now, with Brendon's hand up to his crotch, and is he _massaging_? Oh yes, yes he is. It's intolerable. Spencer grabs Brendon's hand and stands up, pulling Brendon with him. "We're going," Spencer announces, pulling his t-shirt down to hide behind. "See you guys later." He pulls Brendon along after him. Brendon waves, unable to hide a smile. 

They run into Jimmy along the way. Spencer's wallet only has a couple bucks in it, so he pulls out his phone and shoves it into Jimmy's hand. "I'm good for it," he says. "I'll get you the money tomorrow; you can keep this until then, okay?" Jimmy looks at him, seems to understand his desperation. He puts the phone in his pocket and nods. "I'll unlock the door." 

Spencer drags Brendon down the stairs and pushes him up against the wall. Brendon's eyes are wide and delighted. Spencer shakes his head. "Brendon. Are you _trying_ to get me in trouble?" 

"No, sir," says Brendon demurely. "But we aren't in trouble. We're in the basement." 

" _We_ aren't in trouble. _You_ are." Spencer presses up against Brendon, pins his wrist to the wall. "You don't think I'm going to let this slide, do you?" 

_I hope not_ says Brendon's expression. He says nothing. 

Spencer unbuckles his belt with one hand, then Brendon's. He grabs hold of Brendon's dick and squeezes. Brendon's eyes open wider; he bites his lip and whimpers. 

"Oh, no," says Spencer. "I don't want to hear a sound outta you. You wanted to play at school, fine, we'll play, but you call _no_ attention to us, get it?" 

Brendon nods. Spencer squeezes again, and this time Brendon shuts his eyes and holds his breath until Spencer lets go. Spence slides his hand into Brendon's underwear and rubs his thumb across the head of Brendon's cock. "God," groans Brendon, and that's all the excuse Spencer needs. He takes his hand away from Brendon's wrist and slaps him across the cheek. Not too hard, not hard enough to leave a handprint, but enough so Brendon gasps and stills. 

"I thought I told you," says Spencer. "If you can't keep quiet, I'm going to have to keep you quiet." He thumbs Brendon's cock again, and when Brendon moans helplessly, Spencer covers his mouth. And pinches his nose shut. 

Brendon jerks against his hand. Spencer holds it there for a second, then lets go. "If you need to stop," he whispers, "pound the wall. Understood?" Brendon nods and slams his fist against the wall to show it. His eyes are unfocused, and he's breathing hard. Spencer takes advantage of the next indrawn breath to cover Brendon's mouth again, and takes a firmer grip on his cock. He pinches Brendon's nose again, and Brendon's eyes close in ecstasy. His body convulses each time Spencer jerks his cock. It's amazing how this one thing can bring Brendon so close to the edge. Spencer lets him breathe again, and Brendon brings in air in great gulping gasps. 

It's not fair to give Brendon all the fun. Spencer tugs down his own pants and pushes at Brendon's, until both their dicks are free. Spencer rubs his up against Brendon's, and at Brendon's strangled cry, covers up his nose and kisses him. Brendon sucks at Spencer's mouth, his body searching for air anywhere. Spencer kisses Brendon hard and bites his tongue. Brendon would cry out, but there's no way for him to make a sound. Spencer thrusts against Brendon, counts to thirty, lets him breathe, cuts it off again. Brendon's hands are on Spencer's shoulders, fisted tight and struggling not to push him away. 

It's the authority that gets to Spencer; it's the goddamn _ownership_ , the way he can just do this and Brendon will let him. Has to, needs to let him. "If you can hold your breath," whispers Spencer in Brendon's ear, "for the next minute, I'll let you come. I'm going to jerk off on you, and you're going to hold your breath until I'm done, and _then_ you can come. Unless you start breathing again. I'll punish you if that happens."

Brendon would howl if he could, Spencer knows, but he nods instead, eyes shiny with anticipation. He takes in a deep breath and holds it. Spencer spits into his hand and takes hold of his dick. Brendon stands there, pressed against the wall, face red with the effort of obeying Spencer's order, while Spencer counts the seconds in his head and jerks his cock, faster and faster until he comes at the fifty-second mark. He spurts onto Brendon's stomach, lines dripping across his t-shirt, and oh shit, that's going to have to be washed in the sink before Brendon comes back to class. Maybe they can find a clean gym shirt or something. 

"Breathe," Spencer commands, and Brendon does, gasping and coughing like he was held underwater. "Good boy," says Spencer. It's amazing what an orgasm will do for his mood. "You want to come now, don't you? Nod your head if you do." 

Brendon's nod is heartfelt. Spencer smiles. "Do it." He places Brendon's hand on his cock, still hard and leaking. Brendon starts to jerk off instantly. Spencer covers his mouth, lets Brendon breathe in one last time, and seals off his airway.

He thought it would take another minute. It takes maybe twenty seconds before Brendon comes in his own hand, shuddering under the strain. Spencer keeps his hand over Brendon's nose and mouth until Brendon's hand falls limply to his side. Spencer lets him go then, steps back and catches Brendon when he starts to slide to the floor. "Oh," whispers Brendon. "Fuck. Thank you. Thank you, sir." 

Spencer tries to check the time, then remembers his phone is in Jimmy's pants. Lunch is long over; they've probably already missed another class on top of it. But there's no skimping on this part. They both need it. "You did great," says Spencer, easing Brendon to the floor and crouching down beside him. "You were unbelievably hot. I'm really happy with you."

"You are?" Brendon glows. "I was? Awesome. I’m happy with you too."

Spencer stares at Brendon for a second, then smiles and shakes his head. “You are ridiculous. C’mere.” He pulls Brendon into his lap and pets his head. He’ll have to tell him later that this isn’t okay, that gaming Spencer at school better not happen again, but not now. Right now, snuggling Brendon is first priority.


End file.
